The Phoenix Saga: Harry Potter and the Phoenix Fire
by vonSchlieffen
Summary: Harry Potter had always been normal, he strove for it, even, but in the wake of Voldemort's resurrection he is discovering that normality is no longer a luxury he can afford. Join Harry as he takes his first steps on the path to becoming the hero he was always meant to be, struggling with an impossible destiny, new magic, nefarious plots, and growing up.
1. Birthday Surprises on Privet Drive

In a normal town, on a normal street, in a _very_ normal home, a not-at-all normal fifteen year old young man sat on his rickety desk chair staring out of his bedroom window and into the backyard of Number 4 Privet Drive, looking for something—perhaps anything at all—that didn't seem to be there, and at the same time didn't at all belong. Of course, the young man didn't seem to be there either, thanks to his father's invisibility cloak.

No, Harry Potter was not a normal young man by any stretch of the imagination.

Even by wizard standards, his life up to that point was highly unusual. Oddly enough, the fact that he survived a curse that had always caused instant death and had indeed killed both his parents minutes before it was used on himself—and that he somehow then proceeded to defeat the most terrible Dark Lord in history when he was just fifteen months old—was quite honestly just another drop in the bucket for Harry Potter.

Yes, Harry Potter was a strange young man, but then, most newly-minted fifteen year olds don't spend their summer holidays tracking the comings and goings of invisible people who seemingly had nothing better to do than camp in his backyard and follow him around during his walks in the neighborhood.

A loud chime sounded downstairs that signaled noontime had arrived. Harry sighed when he remembered his broken watch—having gotten wet when he forgot to remove it before he went for a dive in the Black Lake during the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament—which he wore it out of habit.

He grimaced.

It truly was unfortunate that he couldn't use any of his money to buy himself new things, lest his awful relatives steal it all. But it wasn't like he wanted anything important that he could buy, anyway. Harry laughed lightly. His money might actually be better off in the greedy hands of the Dursleys, actually, given that he never spent any of it. It didn't even feel like the money belonged to him, so what was the difference?

But if he was going to buy anything, he really would like a new watch; one that he picked out and that he didn't have to steal from Dudley, at the very least. Just something nice and serviceable. _And_ _waterproof_ , he added, annoyed. It didn't have to be anything fancy.

Honestly, he wasn't very picky…

 _Anyway,_ he chided himself, _I must pay attention. Hopefully the smelly drunk has kept his shift so I don't have to worry about being tracked_.

Five minutes later Harry's attention was caught.

He saw what he had been waiting for—a great shimmer by the shed under the Maple tree. Apparently his belief had been right and Klutz had been spying on him, and—

 _Yes! The drunk is back!_ _Merlin, I can smell him from here. Dunno how he's supposed to be discreet even_ with _an invisibility cloak. Ugh._

But still.

He gave a relieved sigh.

Looking at his chart, he scribbled down the identifiers for the watchers he had come up with. Harry was quite proud of his accomplishment; it was usually quite accurate, and naturally the result of experience gained from his many wanderings of Hogwarts castle completely invisible to other people's senses.

Truly, while a magic wand, a touch of cleverness, an invisibility cloak, and a magic map that displayed all of Hogwarts and revealed everyone's locations was an invitation for mischief to be made, it also developed one's awareness of other not-quite-as-sneaky people.

He scoffed at them.

 _Amateurs._

Ha! As if they could to spy on him unnoticed! He wasn't expert at acting like a sneaky Slytherin for nothing!

Which was odd, because he was actually a Gryffindor.

Harry paused.

 _Where the Hell did that come from_?!

He was a Gryffindor! He was!

He had told the Hat. Argued with it. Convinced it that he was right, and it—with its one thousand years of experience—was totally wrong. He wasn't like Voldemort; _wouldn't_ be like him.

He told the Hat, and it agreed with him. His points were well made, and the ancient headwear eventually understood their validity. Yes.

He paused again.

It was _brave_ of him to stand up to the Sorting Hat and assert himself. It was very _courageous_ of him, he was sure.

And in the end, did it really matter that the stupid thing kept trying to re-Sort him?

The Slytherins he knew were all terrible people—bigoted jerks who thought they were Merlin's gift to magic!

And Harry wasn't a bigoted jerk (having experienced an awful lot of animosity in his life, he knew very well how dangerous and harmful that sort of disposition could be and was very diligent in treating people fairly, that you very much).

But…

But, Harry remembered the Hat hadn't considered him a potential Slytherin because he was like Malfoy…or Voldemort for that matter.

" _You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that_."

Well, it just showed how wrong the Hat was, then. He certainly wasn't great—he wasn't even average! There was nothing remarkable about him at all, which was obvious to anyone who'd ever met him. He was just some scrawny kid with baggy old clothes, broken glasses, and a freaky scar.

 _Freak_ …

Harry quickly banished the thought, understanding why he had avoided even cursory self-reflection for so long—there was no way it could be good for one's long-term health.

And anyway, he had no time to get caught up thinking about unimportant things. He had some serious plotting to do.

Back to the chart, then.

There was Klutz, who liked to perch on one of the low-handing branches of the maple tree until they fell off the landed harshly on the grass, and was around most weekday mornings until noon; Scab—the smelly drunk—who, well, was present but usually passed out on a bender behind one of Aunt Petunia's prized rosebushes, and he usually took afternoons on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays; Big Man, who never silenced his feet and was allergic to ragweed, had weekend nights and Saturday afternoons; Voyeur took Monday and Wednesday afternoons and usually couldn't stop from climbing on the fence and peeking into the neighboring houses (as well as Number 4 itself)—and then promptly falling flat on his ass (and it was definitely a man because surely a woman would have more grace than that!); Unknown had weekday nights and possibly Friday afternoons as well, and was too good for Harry to divine any characteristics about him; and finally, someone always different showed up weekend mornings.

Well, regardless of who was spying on him, all he needed to know at that moment was that Scab was the only other wizard in the area, and that he, Harry, could stop worrying so much. He wasn't quite worried that all these people were agents of the recently reincorporated Dark Lord Voldemort there to _get him_. No. They wouldn't bother just spying if they were Death Eaters, who were more likely to burn down the house and try to capture him than simply spy on him.

What was worrying though was that he'd not been told people would be watching the house. Which Harry considered…odd, especially after the disastrous end of the Triwizard Tournament and the failed assassination attempt on his life. Naturally, he was a bit more— _I'm not paranoid_ —cautious than most at the moment, which was considerably more than any fifteen year old young man had any right to be.

Not that Harry ever played by the rules, of course.

And that was just what Harry was doing now. At least that's what he assumed he was doing. Ostensibly, as he had worked out the other week, if he was allowed to do what he was planning, then there would not have been a total information black-out on him, and that he'd not be for all intents and purposes marooned at his awful relatives house while the world he belonged to—the Wizarding World—left him behind, forgotten. He would not have to suffer horrendous nightmares of a graveyard, a dark ritual, and fighting for his life. He wouldn't wake up screaming and crying after only a few hours of sleep, only to have his walrus of an uncle barge into his room roaring up a storm and—

 _No!_ _That's not important. At all. Keep on task, Potter._

He sighed deeply, and, once again, Harry's indomitable will overrode what others could not have ignored, and allowed him to realign his sights on his goal and marshal onward.

Because today, Harry Potter was leaving Privet Drive.

But first, he needed help from an old friend.

"Dobby!"

Pop.

"The great Harry Potter calls for Dobby, sir! How can Dobby serve?"

 _Ah, Dobby_.

Harry smiled warmly. "Hello, Dobby. It's nice to see you again. I need your help. Would like to w—"

Apparently that was enough to set the little bugger off. Said little bugger, with his bulbous eyes and huge, bat-like ears that were for some reason enveloped in socks during a heat-wave, began jumping up and down and— _off a bloody wall!_ —at the chance to help "the mighty Harry Potter."

Absently, Harry thought that perhaps if others were so enthusiastic to help him that the world might not be such a terrible place.

"Dobby, shhh! You can't let anybody hear you or I'll get in trouble!" He whispered urgently.

Somehow, Dobby froze in midair.

Coming out of his bewilderment, Harry trudged on. "Dobby. Like I said, I need your help. And I'd like for you to work for me. I'll pay triple whatever Dumbledore is paying you now. You see, I'm in a spot of trouble here and I think you're the only person who could help me, so what I need you to do is—"

And Dobby wailed.

 _I guess that was too much_ , Harry surmised, as Dobby latched himself onto his leg, soaking his trousers in tears at the "privilege to help great and kind and powerful Harry Potter who is too nice to poor Dobby."

 _At least the window's closed so Scab probably won't hear_ , Harry thought.

But then—

"BOY!"

"Shit."

And Harry heard heavy feet pounding on the stairs, making his stomach drop. He had to act fast.

" _Quick, Dobby! I need you to hide, and be quiet, and don't come back out until I tell you. Under no circumstances are you to come out until I tell you. Do you understand?!_ " Harry commanded desperately, not realizing that he was actually hissing.

Dobby looked fearfully into Harry's eyes.

" _Dobby, do you understand_?" He hissed again.

The many locks on Harry's door were coming undone. He was running out of time. His heart was hammering faster. And Dobby was still _in the middle of his bloody room!_

" _D_ —"

Pop.

For the first time in his memory, Harry breathed a sigh of relief as his bedroom door burst open and his visibly addled Uncle Vernon came barging through—purple face and all—heading right for him.

hg

Not for the first time, Harry lay stiffly on his bed, his head was throbbing and his chest and stomach were aching (but Harry wasn't sure if his stomach hurt because he couldn't remember when he last ate or not). His Uncle Vernon had let him be after ten minutes or so on account of lunch being ready. Harry had the presence of mind to smile ruefully at the realization that while normally being denied food was bad for one's health, Harry's case at least sometimes proved that to be untrue. Food was an excellent distraction for his obese uncle and cousin; it was one Harry had used before many times to great effect. However—

Now was not the time for _him_ to get distracted. He needed to leave. He needed—

Pop.

"Harry Potter, sir?" Dobby called out weakly.

 _Bless him._

Harry slowly turned his head to look at his faithful little friend. "Hello Dobby. How are you?"

For his part, Dobby stood there looking at him wide-eyed before he answered. "Dobby is being fine, sir. Is Harry Potter sir, okay?" he asked nervously.

 _Well_ , he thought humorously, _I wouldn't put is past Dobby to kill Vernon, so_ —

"I'll be fine Dobby, don't worry." He sighed, not for the first time hoping that people didn't actually die from lying too much. "But like I said before, I need your help. And I'd like for you to come work for me. Would you like that?" he asked hopefully.

Dobby's face split into a shit-eating grin. "Oh Dobby has been wanting to work for Harry Potter sir forever! Dobby is so happy now! Dobby will be the best House Elf Harry Potter has ever known!"

Harry smirked.

 _Excellent_.

"Okay, Dobby, here's the plan: I need to get out of here. I need to get to Gringotts in Diagon Alley so I can get gold. Can you help me get there?" Harry was hopeful. Dobby'd never let him down yet.

Dobby positively glowed. "Dobby can be doing that, sir, yes he can! He can be going to Gringotts to get Harry Potter sir's money for him!"

 _Well that's strangely convenient._

Harry smiled. "That's great Dobby. My key is under the loose floorboard under my bed, do you thi—"

With a snap of his fingers, Dobby had appeared the little golden key in his hand, causing Harry to chuckle, and Dobby's smile to widen.

"Excellent Dobby! Now, go to Gringotts and tell them I want…" _How much am I going to need? Anything could happen…_ Perhaps it was time to start putting his fortune to good use? "Tell them I want five thousand Galleons and ten thousand Pounds, okay? Can you do that?"

Dobby jumped and did a twist in the air. "Of course Dobby can be doing that, sir! Dobby is being right back!" And Dobby popped out again, leaving behind a thoroughly bewildered though nonetheless pleased Harry Potter lying on his bed.

"Well that's that taken care of," he chuckled. "Now what?" He looked around his room from his prone position and noticed that, somehow, all of his belongings had migrated from his battered school trunk to occupy the space on his floor and desktop.

 _How curious_.

"Maybe Dobby can help with that."

So instead of cleaning up after himself, Harry eased into a sitting position against the wall, reached onto his desk and picked up one of the wonderful and immensely helpful ancient tomes that he had spirited away from the Chamber of Secrets before the summer began and started reading from where he had left off—volume three of Salazar Slytherin's personal journal, and his earliest forays into the wonderful world of Mind Magic.

Harry had been devoting considerable time to this obscure branch of magic for almost three months, but so far had been unsuccessful in his endeavors—he knew there was some vital realization that was eluding him, and it was driving him absolutely barmy! He was hopeful that reading what Salazar had written during his own time as a student would shed a little more light on the subject than what the brilliant man had managed in his rather dense books.

With that in mind, Harry began to read:

 _926, 14 Maius_

 _Master Alexander has finally begun teaching me the rudiments of the Art of Occlumency. I cannot say I have anticipated learning so much, especially after studying for so long merely about the development of ancient art._

 _Truly an ingenious field of magic, it will enable me to have better recall and increased clarity of my memories, increased self-control, but also, and perhaps most importantly, I will be able to protect my mind from intrusion, whether through Legilimency attacks or even Possession._

 _My mind is sacred to me—without it I would be_ _nothing_ _. It has always been the refuge where I may escape the confines of this grey world and create my own paradise, but I know that soon such selfish pleasantries and wish-thinking will not be enough. I long for a time when I am the Master of my life and no longer need to rely solely on my imagination and the assistance of others, and can actively change the world around me with my mind and magic and help others to do the same. I have no doubt that Occlumency will enable just that._

 _But I digress._

 _It might appear to the unlearned that Occlumency is the art of repressing one's emotions (which is a most dangerous and foolish thing to do). This is not the case. Rather, the object is for one to master them, rather than let them master oneself. It is to compartmentalize one's emotions, in other words. (Incidentally, it is this most basic precept of the discipline that I find the most difficult to comprehend. Our magic, our soul, our emotions—they are all the same; they are of and by and for each other. How can anyone distinguish or separate them?_

 _Thus far, it remains incomprehensible to me. Though perhaps this impediment is merely a result of my personal growth and continued education—one is only wise when one understands how ignorant one is, after all, so my question might likely sound ignorant to the unlearned, ironically, but I know it to be legitimate._

 _The intense focusing that practitioners for some reason refer to as meditation is vital to Occluding one's mind. During the 'meditation' process, one must calm one's emotions and steady the breath and focus on one's mind and at the same time let one's magic "stew"—a curious way to describe it, I know, but Master Alexander used a rather technical term that I find overly complex; he is notorious for his preference for jargon. The reason for suppressing one's emotions, as I understand it, is that they interfere with the logical-rational magic that the Occlumens is attempting to harness. We are able to use Mind Magic—an apt, concise term!—because our magic enables us to interact with our minds on a rather sophisticated level, and harness it to become as much a part of our magical selves as it is part of our physical selves._

 _No, that is imprecise. And far too sentimental. Perhaps I have been spending too much of my days with Ophelia and Antonia?_

 _Regardless, our mind is ruled by chaotic magic (hence so-called 'accidental magic' children are prone to precipitate when they are feeling particularly strong emotions and have not learned how to deal with them as most adults have)—since it is where our uncontained, or wild, memories exist (memories being capable of eliciting powerful emotions and hence the obscure 'Mind Magic'). Occlumency allows us to harness that chaotic magic in a logical-rational (i.e. unemotional or detached) manner and master our minds. Yes. That is why Legilimency is not the 'opposite' of Occlumency, but rather its equal; one cannot exist without the other. Mastering one's consciousness requires a thorough grounding of it capabilities, lest development be incomplete or retarded. But more on that later—_

 _According to my understanding, the budding Occlumens would use magic to suppress (not repress) memories and emotions through constant, waking-state meditation (rather than the technique common among these Byzantines of mental conditioning, or the forced-reliving of memories through constant and violent intrusion), which would induce a calm state of being in which one may utilize the benefits of Occlusion: Clarity of thought by the suppression of free-floating or radical memories, enhanced recall from this memory suppression, control over one's emotions, which is, in great part, the result of memory suppression but also from actively engaging in strident self-control, and the mental protection one is afforded by the process of Occlusion, of course._

 _Mind-altering magics are plentiful, and it is best that one is as prepared as possible to ward off an assault. It is indeed a most invaluable skill, mastering one's mind. But it is not without complications._

 _I found focusing my mind particularly difficult and—in a flash of insight—I have discovered that rather than clearing my mind, focusing it solely on something which I find connects with my magic most deeply and naturally has enabled me to have the necessary concentration of calmness and magic in my mind to a greater degree than what even I had anticipated. (Rather like staying up for as long as possible and going to bed very tired, instead of waking up after only one or two hours of sleep in order to 'correct' one's sleeping pattern—one's goal is achieved either way, though one technique is more easily accomplished than the other for whatever reasons.)_

 _For myself, ever since I began my formal education in magic, I have found that I have a certain affinity for water, and can easily call up in my mind an image that evokes all the sensations, sound and feeling being the most significant, of standing on the seashore during a powerful storm—it is truly exhilarating, and has in the past filled me with a calmness that I desperately needed. But this is only one step of many in Occluding one's mind._

 _I thought I was having great success until Master Alexander merely laughed at my technique and accused me of thinking too highly of myself for daring to go against the established norm. This is not the first time that particular accusation has been leveled against me (when I consider that I am writing these journals in part to aid my descendants and eventually myself when I write my memoirs and books of magic, it is a difficult accusation to counter), and I do not think it will be the last, but truly, what is arrogance if you actually are the best? Sometimes, it is indeed good to be me._

 _I think I will have formed the foundations of my mental defenses far sooner than anyone expects of me. It is always better to be underestimated and_ _then_ _show the competition the error of their ways, I say—_

 _Master Alexander's style is far too rigid and brutal to be adequate in the teaching of Mind Magic (I have no doubt that there are other ways of mastering Occlumency and I anticipate studying them during my travels, but he seems to enjoy the harshness of the method—something to consider later, perhaps)._

 _The mind (which is composed of a person's consciousness and disposition, their thoughts, memories, and beliefs) from my understanding of it, is largely unique to the individual and is altogether too peculiar a realm to rely on 'standard practices' too heavily. The folly of old age perhaps—men become set in their ways and are no longer able to see the world for what it can be, and only for what it is._

 _It is truly a shame that for some people magic stops being magical. (As an aside, I find that this is the case for rather a lot of Transfigurationists—they are too rigid in their beliefs and rely greatly on those ridiculous charts of theirs.)_

 _But back to my meditation exercises._

 _Emotional control is very important, as I have said, but so too is the quality of magic used to create the setting of my calming vision. I need to accustom myself to a new mode of thinking—of existence, really—if I am to be successful. That is in part why Mind Magic is so dangerous, because the practitioner risks losing oneself so completely to the mind and being trapped in it, and even splitting one's consciousness while attempting to promote emotional detachment._

 _I have no doubt that by the time I have mastered my mind that several facets of my character will have changed as I will no longer be ruled by my emotions (or at least not entirely, for not even I am so arrogant or indeed foolish to presume complete detachment, let alone strive for it). In what ways I will change are not known to me—I suspect this is more because such deep self-reflection has never been one of my strengths (yet), but I'm sure Master Alexander would have plenty to say on the subject._

 _Overall, I feel that my technique is ultimately more efficient that Master Alexander's own, because I will not only have mastered my mind, but I will have immersed it in protective magics while at the same time forming a greater connection to and control over my own magic through waking-meditation. Total magical immersion of the mind, body, and soul._

 _This is vital!_

 _Master Alexander's technique would have me prepare myself to react to the forced-reliving of my memories—which would get progressively worse in content—in order to present my mind with a compelling reason to block an invasion and suppress my memories and emotions to present less of a target. I do not believe this technique is conducive to mastering Occlumency. What's more, I do not think that that process is wholly necessary, nor entirely healthy. (As I have said, it is crude and brutish.)_

 _I know that I, for one, have no desire to relive some of my memories. Perhaps I am taking advantage of the rather compelling fact that by utilizing my unorthodox technique to Occlude my mind that I won't have to revisit the horrors of my youth just as Master Alexander warned. That being said, it should be taken as read that Mastery will only come after years of study and practice._

 _Regardless, magic is fundamentally about intent, and I have every intention of succeeding. I am Salazar Slytherin, now, and he is not one to back down from a challenge._

Well, if Harry was looking for clarification he certainly didn't get it. It was very obvious to Harry that Slytherin had never gone back and edited his journals (so many run-on sentences and tangents!). However, his reading wasn't a total loss. The stuff Slytherin had written about the soul and magic and mind was rather intriguing; Harry would definitely have to think on that more.

A familiar pop shocked Harry out of his thoughts.

"Master Harry Potter, Sir! Dobby has returned with sir's monies!" the little Elf exclaimed.

Harry beamed. "Well done, Dobby! That's great. Now, do you think you can help me pack my things? I've made a bit of a mess and with just myself without magic it'd ta—"

Not for the first time that afternoon, Dobby had broken Harry mid-word with a few snaps and waves of his long-fingered hands as he performed what any lazy teen would consider wondrous feats of magic. And then once again, Harry was broken from his concentration, but this time with a feeling not of relief or surprise, but what could only probably be a cardiac arrest come to finish him off before Voldemort ever got the chance.

"Oh no! Dobby! You can't use Magic here, I'll get expelled from school!" he exclaimed. Eyes bugging out, Harry got up and paced across his clutter-free floor, all the while eyeing his bedroom window for a sign of a Ministry owl bearing news of his expulsion.

Thoughts racing across his mind, stomach twisting in the most gruesome ways, he began developing a plan to go on the run—but where would he go? Not to any of his friends' houses. Diagon Alley was obviously not an option. Perhaps he could hide out in the Shrieking Shack? It had always been one of his potential safe-houses. He'd be able to steal from Hogsmeade, if so. It had possibilities, undoubtedly. Or he could just disappear into London and make his way to a youth hostel as he had been planning. He might also be able to hide out in the Hut-on-the-Rock.

 _Ugh_!

If only he could Apparate!

However, noticing Dobby's sheepish expression, he paused mid-stride.

"Dobby?" he questioned haltingly.

The Elf squirmed. "D-Dobby is so sorry, sir, but Dobby was thinking Master Harry Potter didn't want to get in trouble with mean Ministry lady. Dobby is forgetting to tell Master Harry Potter sir this. Dobby is a bad elf!"

And then the little psycho leapt.

But just before Dobby crashed himself through Harry's window, Harry caught him in a dive. Landing harshly into his wall, Harry scowled down at Dobby as his arms enveloped his little body.

"Dobby. What did I tell you about not punishing yourself?" he demanded sternly.

Always one for hysterics, Dobby grew wide-eyed and tearful. "D-D-Dobby is terribly sorry Master Harry Potter sir! Dobby is bad, bad elf. He doesn't deserve to know the great Harry Potter. Dobby has betrayed kind Harry Potter, sir!" he wailed.

Completely taken aback, Harry stared nonplussed at Dobby. "What do you mean Dobby? How did you betray me?" he asked slowly.

Dobby shuddered. "When Dobby first met Harry Potter, sir, Dobby…Dobby" here he sniffled "He is wanting his magic to get sir in trouble with mean Ministry lady! Dobby is getting Harry Potter in trouble!"

Understanding dawned on Harry's face, but a new question needed answering. "Dobby, do you mean to say that you can do magic here and go undetected by the Ministry monitors?" he asked excitedly.

Dobby looked up at Harry sorrowfully. "Of course Harry Potter, Dobby is a House Elf. It is Dobby's job to do as the great Harry Potter commands."

 _Hmm,_ Harry reasoned, _well that's good enough for me_. "Okay Dobby, I'll tell you what," he said, setting Dobby down on his bed, "let's forget that whole incident ever happened just as long as you promise…uh, to conceal your magic, deal?" he asked hopefully.

And just like that, Dobby's face split into a grin and he launched himself at Harry's midsection. "Oh, Harry Potter is the greatest wizard ever! He is being so kind to poor Dobby. Dobby is not deserving of kind Harry Potter!"

Harry chuckled. "Well Dobby, I don't know about that, but…" he grimaced, "my stomach kind of hurts right now, so let's finish that hug later, yeah? In the meantime," he continued after Dobby had reluctantly let go of him, "we're escaping from this hellhole. Up for a jailbreak?" he asked with a grin that slowly faltered and turned into a harsh scowl as his mind turned to contemplate his situation.

"I have no idea what my friends are doing right now because all they've sent are useless letters, my godfather hasn't even deigned to contact me, Dumbledore is silent per usual, and the bloody press is dragging my name through the mud. I've just been abandoned here, _again_! It's hardly any better than being in my cupboard! At least then I didn't know what I was missing…"

And then black anger that had been simmering in his gut since ever he could remember, that had been struggling mightily inside of him since Cedric was killed, finally broke free.

"I don't know what's going on, Dobby! I mean, everyone's acting as if Voldemort isn't really back and I'm just some sort of twisted liar who murdered his friend and is a danger to everything around him!" He took a deep breath. "At least that's the impression I have," he explained casually. "I wouldn't really know what everyone in my life thinks about me because I'm not _important enough_ for them to spare me any attention."

He snorted derisively. "I've never been important enough, or good enough, smart enough, nice enough. Never enough. Everyone wants me to be something I'm not. And I try so hard to be what they want, but I can't. I bloody can't! And they hate me for it! All of them! Ha! Judging by how people react to me not living up to their standards now, I guarantee you that if I had gone into Slytherin like I should have then the whole fucking world would have been calling for my head!"

Harry was the picture of despair as he looked at Dobby. "But that's hardly any better than what's going on now, you know? I have friends, yeah, people who are supposed to care for me, but what does that really mean? What's the point? All I do is fucking give, give, give. _And everyone just keeps fucking betraying me_! It's like they don't care about me at all, even though I can't help but care about them. I can't help it!

"What have I ever done to deserve any of this? Am I really so wretched a person that I don't even have the courage to tell everyone to go fuck themselves? That'd I'd rather agonize over every little bit of affection I get and ignore the constant, certain betrayals that are coming just so I don't feel like I'm completely alone? That maybe my life is worth something, after all? That I might not be a freak? What the hell is wrong with me?!" he yelled.

Really, Harry had no idea when he got so worked up during his rant, but only when he was on his feet and yelling did he realize just how much pent-up frustration he had accumulated in the four weeks since he'd arrived at Privet Drive. And he wasn't about to stop, let alone notice he had started hissing again.

" _Argh! I can't stand it! What the hell is going on, Dobby?! What have I ever done to anybody that I'm treated like a piece of shit by everyone? Why doesn't anybody trust me?_

" _What did I do to deserve to be saddled with the fucking Dursleys for my pitiful excuse of a life?!_ " he exclaimed. " _Don't people care about how much I hate it here? I mean, what use is it, being the bloody savior of Wizarding Britain, if no one bloody gives a damn about me as a person?!_ " And his ragged breathing stopped in his throat as he came to conclude an awful truth— _I'm alone_.

And then Harry noticed it.

Silence.

He turned to look at Dobby, who was cowering in a corner. _Shit_. Harry took several deep breaths then spoke again. His voice cracked. Harry cleared his throat loudly, then tried again. "Dobby, I'm sorry, I don't mean to get so angry. I'm not angry with you, not at all; it's just that…I'm not having a very good go of things right now and I'm feeling rather lost, you know?"

Dobby stepped tentatively from his place in the corner near the door over to where Harry had fallen into a seat on his lumpy mattress.

"Dobby understands, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has been watching you, sir, in case you is needing him," he explained.

His head screaming at him for losing his cool yet again, Harry stood up and looked out the window, then leaned against his desk and heard it groan against his weight as he considered Dobby's words.

 _Watching me, eh?_

gh

It was inconvenient indeed that just when Harry was about to escape from Privet Drive, an owl came. Several owls, in fact. Be that as it may, Harry couldn't deny the benefit of having a large cache of sweets to gorge on. Who knew that birthdays were good for something, after all?

Harry still felt like he had been forsaken by his friends, though. And he certainly wasn't about to let some sweets blind him to the reality of his situation: That everyone in his life seemed perfectly content to ignore him as he was held prisoner in a place he utterly hated—and would much rather burn to the ground with his relatives still inside of it—until they needed him to come out of his cage and save the world again.

Ever since his name came out of that damned Goblet of Fire his life had taken one turn for the worse after another, and now, with Voldemort back in the flesh, Harry's life was starting to spiral out of control entirely—he didn't know whom he could trust, he had more enemies than he honestly knew what to do with, and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep per night since he got back from Hogwarts because of his nightmares.

No way in Hell could some candy make him forget any of _that_ shit.

But! Dobby, of course, had been holding out on him, he'd come to discover. Harry couldn't hold it against his little friend, though, especially not when he had gifted a large tin of succulent and most precious treacle tart for Harry to devour.

 _Yeah_ , Harry reasoned, _Dobby definitely deserves an award_.

Harry's faithful owl Hedwig flew in from her morning hunt and alighted on his shoulder. She nibbled his ear and rubbed her head against his as he read his letters, offering the only comfort he had come to depend on and expect.

Instead of escaping from Privet Drive as he had been preparing to do, Harry had stayed. However, it wasn't the arrival of gifts that had derailed Harry's plans and convinced him to eat more comfort food than was advisable. No, it was the letters that came with the owls that set him off. Well, in a manner of speaking. The first letter, from his best friend Hermione Granger, ambled on about school and homework, offered vague reassurances, carried the occasional reprimand, and ended with a rather enigmatic promise to see him soon.

 _Nothing new there_.

The letter from Ron Weasley was short and to the point like usual.

 _Ron never was one for words_ , he thought, smiling ruefully.

A third letter, this time from his first friend ever, the half-giant Hagrid, revealed just how good a heart the huge man really had.

 _Harry,_

 _Hagrid here. I'm on the continent with Olympe looking for some creatures to study next year. I was thinking about what to get you. Let me say that you're not an easy fella to buy for first. I was gonna get you another pet, but figured that Hedwig wouldn't take kindly to that. And then I saw this beauty._

 _It's a fanged wallet. Bigger on the inside, see? Also, to make it work, just stick it with your wand and say your name, that way, you'll be the only one who can use it. Other people would just end up losing their fingers, but I say if they try to steal from you, it'd serve them right!_

 _I know you're not having an easy time of it right now, especially when you're stuck with those awful relatives of yours. The world's getting darker. It feels a lot like it did last time. But there are good people here who care about you, even if they don't always show it. You're a good kid, Harry, and I'm damn proud to know you._

 _Hagrid_

With a watery smile, Harry inspected the fanged wallet.

 _Trust Hagrid to get something that bites you_.

He laughed and drew his wand from his pocket and stuck the wallet like Hagrid told him and said his name. The wallet opened—fangs and all—and Harry peeked inside. Blackness.

Harry hummed. _Here goes nothing_. He stuck his hand inside the wallet. Feeling no resistance, and with all fingers still attached, he sunk more and more of his arm inside until he was elbow-deep and able to scratch the bottom.

Harry turned to smile at Dobby. "Well this'll cut down on trips to Gringotts, eh? Let me see that money you brought, Dobby."

Dobby handed over the huge, heavy leather bag full of Galleons and the thick leather envelope, both bulging at their seams. Figuring it made more sense this way, Harry poured the galleons into the fanged wallet, and then tossed in the envelope holding British Pounds for easy access. Not detecting any change in the weight of his wallet, a grin spread across Harry's face.

"Nice." He spotted the other unopened letter, presumably from his godfather. Hopefully it told him just when he was getting out of his own personal Azkaban. "Dobby, will you fetch me that letter please?" he asked.

A snap later, the letter was soaring into Harry's hands. "Thanks Dobby."

Dobby just smiled.

Harry opened the letter and much to his surprise, an antique, richly decorated silver mirror fell out onto his lap with a note stuck to it.

It read:

 _Harry,_

 _James and I used to use these mirrors to communicate when we were in separate detentions. Just say my name to make it work._

 _Love,_

 _Padfoot_

Immediately feeling bad about ever doubting his godfather, Harry screwed up his courage and toned down his resentment, which was an easier job than he usually had of it, because it seemed that Sirius was cleverer than he seemed to be.

"Sirius Black."

And then, to Harry's surprise, his godfather's smiling face appeared, looking much healthier than when he had seen him last.

"Hey Harry! Happy Birthday."

Harry couldn't help but smile in return. "Hey Padfoot. How's it going?"

Sirius smirked. "Eh, can't complain." And suddenly his happy expression seemed to disappear. "What's going on with you, kid? You don't look so good."

Harry hesitated. "Oh, well, you know…uh, it's really hot here in Surrey so I'm not sleeping too well." He really did hate lying to his godfather, but what use was telling the truth if there was nothing to be done about it? At least, that was Harry's experience anyway.

Unfortunately, if his godfather's expression was anything to go by, it didn't seem like the lie was good enough.

 _Damn._

"What's going on Harry?"

Harry averted his eyes desperately. What was wrong with him today?

"Nothing's wrong." He stammered. "It's fine. I just… Well, like I said, I haven't been getting very much sleep lately," he finished lamely.

On the other end of the mirror, Sirius was silently contemplating him. The silence stretched on for so long that it hurt, and not until Harry looked back at Sirius was it broken.

Sirius looked solemn. "Hmm. I'm sure being where you are isn't helping you very much, is it?"

Harry snorted softly. "Is it that obvious?" he asked quietly.

A sad smile crossed Sirius' face. "Yeah kid, it is. I'm really sorry you're stuck there. I would much rather have you be here with me," Sirius explained honestly, "even if the house is a mess…" he trailed off.

His anger was back quickly. "Well, how come I'm not with you then?" Harry demanded. "You're my godfather, you're the one who's supposed to take care of me! Why am I stuck here with the Dursleys away from you?!"

Sirius looked like he had just been slapped. "I'm sorry Harry, I really want to take care of you, but Dumbledore said that—" and that was as far as he got.

"I don't fucking care what Dumbledore said! Who is he to tell me anything? Or you for that matter?" Harry was standing now and storming across his unusually small room as he yelled at his godfather. "And what about what I want? And you?" Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes. "I don't want to be here. I've never wanted to be here. Dumbledore says I'm safe but that's complete bullshit and you know it Sirius! If I was safe then why are there people spying on me?! " Harry demanded.

All Sirius could do was listen fearfully as Harry ranted.

"And why isn't anybody talking to me? If it's not safe enough to send a stupid letter to me, then what the hell am I doing here? No one is telling me anything!" He paused, the snorted. "Well, that's not completely true," he confessed a tad snidely. "Merlin knows people have turned lying to me into a sport," he growled. "And what about you Padfoot? What are you doing? Why haven't you written? Or visited?" Harry's voice cracked here, but Sirius was the only one to notice.

"I thought you wanted me! That's what you said that night after we got Wormtail. Were you lying to me? I really thought you lo—" Harry stopped his tirade with a sharp gasp. He looked into the mirror to see Sirius looking back at him wide-eyed with a disbelieving look on his face.

And Harry?

Well, his world came crashing down around him—all his hopes seemingly lost as he took in his godfather's expression. He needed to end the conversation _now_. Harry took a hurried breath. "I have to go. Bye."

Harry tossed the mirror on his bed and blinked furiously as at last his tears fell. _What a fucking_ disaster. _How could I let that happen? Sirius didn't deserve any of that. What the hell is wrong with me?_

Harry would never know it, but almost the exact same thoughts were screaming through the distraught mind of the one person who cared about him the most—Sirius Black.

hg

Albus Dumbledore was tired. And old. And just a little mad. But still, he was an absolute genius; he had the kind of mind that could look at a tree and in a few seconds count all the leaves—truly an impressive feat, considering most would stare blankly and not even know where to begin, invariably becoming lost in the vastness of what lay before them. But anyway… He wasn't one to show off like that. No, Albus much preferred to let his…snappy sense of style do the showing off for him. And if his eccentricities made people underestimate him or threw them off balance, then so much the better for him.

Though truthfully, not many people underestimated him—no doubt thanks to his great many accomplishments and his glorious reputation.

 _Well,_ he equivocated, _I suppose that it's a rather inglorious reputation now_.

Not that it mattered. In all honesty, he hardly cared that he was being harangued in the national press and even in a few international publications. Who would? Or that he had been booted from two seats of great power. As if that really mattered in the grand scheme of things! He had hit worse lows in his one hundred and fourteen years of life. And in the end, he knew, he would be proven right.

Again.

Albus popped a lemon drop into his mouth.

 _It could be worse_.

Albus chuckled mirthlessly. That had become a motto of sorts for him over the last four years—incidentally, the number of years since Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts.

 _Not that it's in any way the lad's fault, of course_.

He sighed.

Harry Potter. The boy embodied all of the traits Albus prized most highly—bravery (even if Harry's particular brand of it was absolutely terrifying), unending compassion, a great capacity for love, and unmatched moral fortitude—and at the same time he personified most of Albus' worst failures. Of which, there had been far too many ever to enumerate.

All of those things swirling inside the boy had created a great deal of confusion for Albus, and many other people as well, he knew.

Truthfully, most people were complex—multifaceted, deep—even the young ones sometimes.

But Harry? He was something else entirely.

Harry was a r—he was a _puzzle_ , wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. Despite his…harsh, grim existence, he possessed probably the most beautiful soul Albus had ever come across. Which was really saying something, because when one spoke of souls and Harry Potter, it was serious business.

Albus quickly popped a second lemon drop.

That isn't to say that Albus had any idea of what was _really_ going on at the Dursley residence until Harry had come to Hogwarts. He had had a plan, after all; he had set things in motion, done what needed doing. It was all supposed to be okay. At least…that's what he told himself. (Not even a genius is immune to abject denial, you know.) Arabella's lukewarm reports of Harry's wellbeing had been just enough to keep him from interfering—from deviating from his grand plan.

His plan…

Of course he had a plan for Harry; he had plans for quite a lot of things. He was Albus Dumbledore, after all, Master of Plans! But this one was special—it was neat and elegant—it gave Harry a fighting chance, and would destroy Lord Voldemort's power for good.

His plan…

He was Albus Dumbledore, King of Fools.

It was all based on a lie, of course; a bloody-minded coercion. Yes, Petunia had given Harry houseroom and sealed the Bond of Blood charm that would protect him—keep his soul from spoiling—and ultimately save him and everyone else, but Albus knew that she had only done so because of the bank-breaking personal check that he had left with the letter describing the circumstances of James and Lily's deaths (which may or may not have also included a very politely-phrased threat).

Albus had no illusions about what sort of life Harry would likely have after being entrusted to Petunia's guardianship—she would be harsh, overly-critical, and jealous. But that was okay, because it would make him strong, confident in his independence.

A warrior.

It was Harry's only chance. (And Albus would know, wouldn't he?)

And maybe, even, Petunia might surprise everyone, and grow to love Harry. And then he would be strong, confident, _and_ well-adjusted. Given the circumstances, it was the best Albus could hope for. (The world absolutely did not need another Draco Malfoy….)

But it was not to be.

Harry was not at all confident _or_ well-adjusted.

He even had some mild sociopathic tendencies.

 _Love cannot suffer lies and deceit_.

Albus had forgotten that.

But there was a variable he had not taken into account.

Rancor. (Some wounds, as he knew, go too deep for the healing.)

His plan had already failed. From the very beginning.

Or had it? There were positives from having Harry growing up being as mistreated as he was. He was unbelievably strong, surprisingly resourceful, dead clever, and sneaky; he even had some mild sociopathic tendencies. All were things that would help him survive and do what was necessary. His strength of character had been honed over many years—forged from his unyielding determination and ardent sense of justice, both born out of constant struggle and inequity—and it was most unlikely to falter. Albus knew—he had taken the trouble to get to know him. Harry would not fail.

To do what was necessary—that was how Albus had lived his life for the past quarter century. It was necessary. He did it. He didn't have to like it—Merlin knew he absolutely _hated_ it, that it tore at his soul and blackened his old heart—he just had to do it.

But that wasn't enough—not _nearly_ enough—to free Albus' conscience from his suffocating guilt. Was it all worth it, would Harry's suffering be worth it—perhaps even justified—if he finally had his soul all to himself and the world was free from Lord Voldemort?

 _Damn._

The world was lucky indeed that Harry had not lost himself to hatred, because Albus was sure that someone as strong and relentless as Harry would be nearly unstoppable on the path to power and ruination. (And Albus doubted he would even be able to stand against Harry, were that the case; it was all Albus' fault, after all, and it certainly wasn't like Harry didn't have every reason in the world to lash out against all and sundry.) In that sense, and many others, he was truly Voldemort's equal, but Harry was also so much more—Tom had no idea who he was dealing with.

Albus shivered.

Harry's behavior would be worrisome to anyone who did not make it their business to know as much about him as possible—to know exactly how Harry was distinguishable from Tom Marvolo Riddle—and that all had not been lost.

Harry _did_ have compassion, he _knew_ what it was to use force judiciously, and he was neither selfish nor vain. But…Harry showed no remorse when he killed Quirrell, he had probably broken all of the school's rules, and he was secretive—sometimes he was even false. Harry's school grades, for instance, were suspiciously mediocre for someone who was so possessed of magic and had as keen a mind as Harry did (and Albus would know, having probed it often enough, looking for signs that something— _anything at all_ —had gone right.). He was a Quidditch star, was often in the middle of so much of the trouble at Hogwarts, and yet he had few friends, and tried his level best to avoid any attention at all. Truly, most might think that the poor boy had two personalities, or was up to some serious no good, but Albus knew better.

Oh, did he know. And to his eternal shame, he could not gather the courage to confront Harry about it.

(But that was okay too, wasn't it? Because it would make him stronger.)

His all-time favorite student was drowning in a world that he didn't understand, trying to balance who he was and who others wanted him to be, and he was about to get sucked into a war in which he was destined to fight, to lead—only far sooner than Albus ever hoped for.

He had thought that by _not_ circumventing Trelawney's two prophecies things would be better—that their side would avoid the curse that came with such hubris—and maybe he was right.

And now? Well, all of his plans were coming together, only, he wasn't so sure if that was a good thing or not. He was no longer confident that he would be able to do what was necessary.

And it was all because of Harry Potter: Because Albus had taken the trouble to get to know him.

Harry had been through too much! (He conveniently glossed over that he himself had been the principal cause of Harry's pain and the soul-rending self-loathing that knowledge brought him). Albus was sure of it; damn the plan. Damn everything! Harry had to be kept safe, he had to be protected, and loved, and showered with everything else that he had been denied for his entire life. Harry couldn't—Albus wouldn't let him— **No**!

…But Albus couldn't. Because of the plan. The horrible, immoral, disgusting, nauseating, foul, devilish plan he had conceived so many years ago, when he realized the truth of Harry's scar—and what it really _meant_ , and how Albus was _powerless_ to fix it (although he had never stopped trying in fourteen years, and wasn't about to stop _anytime soon, dammit_!). How the devil was the boy going to survive otherwise? The plan would save everyone! Including Harry. _Including Harry_!

He had to be kept safe until the right moment, and then Lord Voldemort would be broken. It was all about Harry in the end; it always was.

 _Safe until the right moment_ …

Albus was supremely reluctant not to have a plan regarding Harry's safety. Merlin knew Gryffindors had no sense of self-preservation!

And wasn't that was another great enigma? Not that Albus had spent much time dwelling on it, really, but… Excepting his obvious, stroke-inducing Gryffindor traits that would put Godric himself to shame, why wasn't Harry in Slytherin? (It was likely the root cause for why he seemed to have two personalities, now that Albus thought about it.) Of course, he knew that that was Harry's decision during his Sorting, to go to Gryffindor.

 _The sneaky boy_ …

It was much like Albus' own Sorting, as the Hat was wont to remind him from its shelf. But he went to Gryffindor for a different reason than Harry—Albus would have had too easy a time in Slytherin, and he knew quite well even when he was eleven that the only things worth doing were those that required effort, so to Gryffindor it had been. Harry merely wanted to get away from anything to do with Voldemort, not that Albus could blame him. It was actually quite a relief for Albus—it would have been an utter disaster if Harry ended up in Slytherin House; given the fickle nature of British witches and wizards, practically everybody would likely have tried to have Harry drawn and quartered for being either a nascent Dark wizard or for having defeated Voldemort.

Albus popped another lemon drop.

 _I wonder what Severus would say if he knew Harry was almost in his House?_

Albus sighed. One of the things likely to keep Harry alive in the long-run was that his mind was absolutely Slytherin; that is to say, he knew how to come out on top, or at least, and more precisely, Harry knew how not to lose. Harry was expert. And when life and death hung in the balance, that skill was invaluable indeed. Albus was quite sure that one need only look at Harry's history to come to that conclusion, because despite his young age, there was quite a lot of evidence—and Harry's continued existence was undeniable.

Now that Albus thought about it, perhaps he was onto something…

A proof for his theory, perhaps?

 _Let's see_ …

Indeed, it has for long been taken as read by even casual observers that Gryffindors have no proper sense of self-preservation, and yet… _and yet_ , in the face of all the unbelievable and nearly constant danger Harry met that would have destroyed most others—remembering the fact that Harry had never actually received any training to handle such danger—Harry was still alive. So, Harry had some deep and powerful and abiding instinct for self-preservation that manifested itself in his sharp mind and well-honed instincts that was unusual in anyone, especially teenage Gryffindors. Thus, it must be said that, if he truly had not gone looking for trouble in the first place, then Harry was not as much a Gryffindor as he might appear to be— _as he wanted others to think he was_.

The rogue! Harry was even sneakier than Albus thought!

Albus couldn't help but laugh. _What nerve_!

Indubitably, Harry was a rather uniquely powerful wizard cast in the mold of a hero (for manifold reasons, Albus now understood)—and he clearly deferred to those traits and expectations frequently—but Harry had some rather dominant un-Gryffindorish qualities that served him most favorably. True, he was often confronted with situations that for some reason required him to take a clear moral stand, but his actions bespoke a subtle understanding of strategy and the strengths and weaknesses of actors. In other words, he was a Slytherin hiding in plain sight—possessed of the finest traits and skills of the best from that House. And he was doing exceptionally well for himself, too! It was most unusual.

(Albus had never even considered this side of Harry beyond an abstract recognition that the boy knew how to get out of trouble; never once had he thought that there was so much more to Harry than even he had realized. How extraordinary! How _intriguing_. Did he truly underestimate the boy so much? Albus had thought that, after Harry conquered Quirrell, a Basilisk, a hundred Dementors, a dragon, and Lord Voldemort, that he had finally stopped underestimating the boy; it was getting quite tiresome, having to keep correcting himself so regularly, to say nothing of the fact that anyone who can stand up to Lord Voldemort is not _ever_ to be underestimated for one's own good, at the very least.)

Albus sighed again.

 _Well,_ he figured, _Harry's never really had any regard for the rules._

Albus popped another lemon drop and, with a twist into the night, he Apparated away.

He reappeared in the dilapidated park across the street from the old Black townhome at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, the new Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Not bothering to look either way before he crossed the street— _Such is the arrogance of man!_ , he humored himself—he stepped swiftly across the old cobblestones, over the crumbling sidewalk, past the wrought-iron gate, up the black stone steps, and raised a fist.

He paused.

 _Mustn't knock_.

Taking a deep breath, he grasped the door handle and pushed down on it with his thumb. The door opened to reveal a dank hallway lit by silver gas lamps. The old wallpaper was burned black with age and negligence, and was actually peeling off from the wood paneling.

Albus strode down the hallway, careful to avoid the troll leg umbrella stand and the bunched-up areas of carpeting, and made his way down the few steps that led into the basement kitchen.

 _Perhaps I should remove the Tripping Jinx_ _on that ridiculous fixture? Hmm._ He shook his head. _Best to let it resolve itself. It's not like I'm one to enjoy slapstick humor, of course._

His hearty chuckle brought the attention of the room on him, and his moment of levity was lost as he took in the serious expressions of his allies.

Many old faces had returned. Alastor Moody, his long-time friend and one of his most trusted allies; Sturgis Podmore, an Undersecretary in the Department of International Magical Cooperation; Elphias Doge, his old schoolmate and influential Wizengamot member; Emmeline Vance, who had considerable and vital ties to high society; Remus Lupin, their werewolf connection and Albus' fellow bookworm; Sirius Black, a helplessly degenerate ex-con Albus had been very glad to know was not, in fact, evil; Mundungus Fletcher, whose job description was better left unsaid; Dedalus Diggle, an experienced Obliviator and undercover operative; Albus' brother Aberforth, who had reluctantly returned; and then there were Minerva McGonagall, Rubeus Hagrid, and Poppy Pomfrey, who were not present for the night's meeting.

They were all that remained of the old Order.

Of the new recruits, many were people he had known for practically their entire lives. Molly and Arthur were there of course. Their sons William and Charles were the Order's inside-man in Gringotts and their agent in Romania trying to dredge up foreign contacts, respectively. Hestia Jones, Jonas White, Mark Johnson, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora Tonks were Aurors, and highly valued members of Albus' group, as well, because the Order desperately needed as many skilled fighters as possible. Amos Diggory and his wife Cecelia, still reeling from the tragedy of their son's murder, were quick to rally under the Order's banner. Ted and Andromeda Tonks were there too; a skilled accountant and solicitor, respectively, they would soon be doing more work pro-bono than they did work for pay. And lastly, there was Severus Snape.

Perhaps the less said about him the better.

He cleared his throat. "Welcome friends. Please be seated, and let this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix commence. Now," he continued after the scrapping of benches and chairs abated, "perhaps we should start with Severus' report. Severus, what news do you bring from Lord Voldemort's camp?"

Ignoring the way that most of those in his presence flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, Severus began his report with his trademark sneer. "Headmaster, as you know, the Dark Lord is still recovering from the fight in the graveyard and the resurrection ritual." This drew confused stares Severus' way, and Albus was slightly amused to see the dour Potions Master ignore his audience.

"However, he has several plans in motion. Death Eaters have begun scouring the continent for allies—I know the Dark Lord wants to bring giants back to Britain in particular," here several people gasped, causing Severus to curl his lip, "—in addition to those witches and wizards he feels he can sway to his cause, along with the more bloodthirsty Werewolf packs. He has decided not to approach the vampire covens for the time being."

It was funny—when most people spoke their lips moved. Albus had never worked-out how Severus managed it.

"Furthermore, his successful political maneuverings in the Ministry have proven to be the Dark Lord's most fruitful endeavors since his return. Indeed, Lucius Malfoy has been so effective at manipulating the current administration and key members of the Wizengamot that very few have even been Imperiused yet. Currently, the Ministry is doing a great deal of the Dark Lord's bidding, even if they don't know it." And with that sobering statement, spoken in Severus' usual silky voice, the room exploded in a cacophony of voices.

 _And they say_ I _have a flair for the dramatic_ , Albus scoffed.

He took in those seated around the huge oak table as they argued with each other and yelled questions back at Severus. Of course, his spy paid them all no mind and kept a bored expression on his face as he stared at nothing in particular.

He sighed.

"Please let us have silence!" he boomed.

And immediately the kitchen fell into a hush as all eyes turned to the venerable Headmaster.

Albus cleared his throat and popped another lemon drop. "Please, let us be calm. Let me impart to you all that war has not yet broken out, and that when the time comes, we will all need to be prepared for the worst. But I should say that I do not believe that war shall come soon. Lord Voldemort's position is much stronger so long as the world believes him dead, but when his presence is revealed, we shall have the upper hand again." He took in his audience and breathed deeply. "Now, we should continue with our members' reports before we question them."

Albus turned his gaze to Remus Lupin, but immediately focused on Sirius Black. The young man looked like death rolled over. His vacant expression and unfocused eyes made him eerily reminiscent of victims of the Dementors of Azkaban. And judging by the sidelong glances his friend Remus was giving him, Albus was not the only one with concerns. What struck Albus out of his musings, though, was the sudden death-glare Sirius sent his way. Albus didn't need Legilimency to know what was on Sirius' mind. Harry was alone on his birthday. Again.

 _If only they knew_ …

"Remus, what do you have to add?"

Truly, he had not seen Remus Lupin looking so haggard since Voldemort's fall in 1981. The man had more grey than any man not yet forty should. His tan robes had long-since lost their luster, and bore more patches and were much more thatched than advisable. His face was gaunt and his eyes were dark—clearly the man had pushed himself too hard over the course of the month.

Remus coughed. "Well, I've spent the past few weeks feeling out a few werewolf packs. Most have not decided one way or another which side they will support, the exception being Greyback's pack.

"As I think Severus can attest, there has been no official declaration from either Voldemort or Greyback on the matter of allegiance, but it's only a matter of time until something happens—I think Greyback is just waiting to see what he's offered," he explained with a pronounced grimace.

Albus looked around the table again and saw the looks of fear and revulsion as Order members contemplated what it would mean for Fenrir Greyback's horde of ravenous and fanatical werewolves to be unleashed upon the masses. He quite agreed with their assessment.

Albus took Remus' fidgeting as his cue to speak. "Well thank you, Remus. We all understand how difficult it is to obtain any reliable information at all from the werewolf packs and appreciate whatever information you are able to gather, as well as the danger your presence invites."

He popped another lemon drop.

"What news from the Ministry?"

Several dejected looks met his gaze and Albus held a sigh.

 _Really_ , he chastised himself, _I should have eased into that more_.

"Kingsley, what's going on in the Auror Department?"

Apparently that was the wrong question, because the usually calm Auror Sergeant practically growled. "Well Dumbledore," he intoned in his deep voice, "the Minister is cutting our funding by a quarter, as I'm sure you saw in the budget proposal for the new year, which means that there will be no overtime pay, no raises, no special compensation, and no new equipment. Much of that money is being used for 'Ministry renovations and special projects,' which I suppose is a euphemism for graft." Kingsley heaved a deep sigh and exhaled.

 _Oh what have you done now, Cornelius, you idiotic man?!_

"It will be announced next week that staffing positions are going to be cut to make up for the budget cuts." He paused.

 _A pause is never good_.

"Probably one half of the Aurors with twenty years or more of experience are going to be forced into retirement"—immediately people started demanding to know what was wrong with the Minister, and if Albus was sure the pompous dolt wasn't Imperiused—"and no new Aurors will be recruited for the foreseeable future. Similar cutbacks are working their way through the Hit Wizard force as well. The Magical Law Enforcement squad is really too disorganized to say what's going there."

Kingsley raised his voice to be heard over the ruckus. "But all this is nothing on the new regulations being steamrolled through the Wizengamot that restrict DMLE operational guidelines and investigative purviews. Essentially, the DMLE's capabilities and personnel are being gutted, and I do not think I am exaggerating too much when I say that Hogwarts prefects will soon rival Aurors in terms of the power their positions grant them."

Silence.

Kingsley continued after a moment, and seemed to know that not even his soothing bass voice could make his report any less grating on people's ears. "Honestly, it feels like we've lost the war before it has even truly begun."

Albus closed his eyes and tried to remember a time when his life was easier, but couldn't get past how hopeless their current situation seemed. All the support he had built since Voldemort's downfall had crumbled like a cookie in warm milk. It was truly gut-wrenching. Opening his eyes, he realized that he was being watched by the entire room.

 _Such is the burden of leadership_.

But before Albus could speak, the fireplace chimed, and a head appeared. Arabella Figg had come to call. His heart skipped several beats.

 _Oh no, Harry!_

"Albus! Albus! Come quick, help! Dementors attacked Harry and his cousin!"

hg

Feeling absolutely miserable not for the first time since his summer holiday began, Harry Potter sat on the floor leaning against his bed, glaring at the far wall. As a young child Harry had often taken to brooding while he was locked in his dark and dreary cupboard for one reason or another—it helped pass the time certainly—but lately, Harry's brooding had taken on a rather dark edge.

After all, one does not normally consider how much longer there is until a Dark Lord comes knocking and puts you out of your misery. Truly, Harry had never met another person until Sirius who had such a terribly unfair life as him. But really, Harry had come to understand a long time ago that if a situation seems fair, you just don't really understand it. And Harry thought he understood his life rather well—it sucked.

Harry's stomach growled. It was normal for him to go a day or so without food at Number 4, so he wasn't much bothered by the aches of hunger that usually roiled through his stomach. And now that he had a secret stash of food as well as a loyal worker who could use magic freely, there was no reason for him to go hungry. And that was currently the problem. He had eaten without thinking, and now he had to use to loo. Except that there were nine locks between him and relief, and certainly his relatives had no intention of letting him out of his room anytime soon.

 _Fuck_.

Maybe he'd get lucky and someone would make a mess of dinner and he'd get to clean it up.

"Or maybe," he chuckled ruefully, "we'll finally be one big happy Dursley family." Harry snorted. "Yeah, like that's ever gonna happen."

So he was pretty much screwed unless he somehow managed to Apparate into the bathroom. Unfortunately for him, he had to wait until his seventeenth birthday to pass his test at the Ministry. And he didn't even have the twins' skill in picking locks to fall back on—Harry was much more adept at blowing doors apart than he was at bypassing their security. How he wished he could use magic; his life would be so much easier when he was no longer forced to spend summers locked up in his awful room at Number 4.

Harry froze. "Ugh! How could I be so stupid?!" he growled. "Dobby!"

Pop.

"Master Harry Potter called for Dobby, sir?" Dobby asked in his high-pitched voice.

Harry sighed in relief. "Hi Dobby. Think you can unlock my bedroom door for me?" he asked hopefully.

If Dobby's smile was any indication of things to come, life was suddenly looking up for Harry Potter.

"Oh of course Dobby can be doing that, sir!" He snapped his fingers and metal clacked. "It is being done now, Harry Potter," he proclaimed happily.

Harry grinned. "Excellent Dobby. Just hang out here and I'll be right back. We have things to discuss."

gh

Harry Potter was angry. Again.

"Stupid Dursleys."

Indeed, the Dursleys were very much to blame for his current predicament, but not entirely so. Maybe. He supposed that, in some insane way, Harry himself could be partly to blame for being banned from the house until he learned to control his urges and ' _stop all that freakishness_.' Well, it's not like he didn't try—that he hadn't always tried.

 _At least Dobby got away_.

And how was he supposed to know that he'd be caught coming out of the bathroom? It just wasn't like Vernon at all to finish dinner early. And yet, he did, and Harry was now exiled to the derelict playground on Wisteria Walk, less than half a mile from Number 4.

The sun had only just fallen below the horizon by the time Harry had ambled his way to the park, so he figured it was close to eight in the evening. He sat on the only swing that had survived Dudley's and his gang's vandalism and contemplated his situation, figuring that, as birthdays go, this one was not the worst he ever had. True, instead of being happy and celebrating with his godfather, he had actually said terrible things to him while he was locked in his miserable room. And his Uncle Vernon lost his temper on him. But really, it's not like he hadn't been dealing with any that since he could ever remember. Well, okay, so Sirius had only recently come back into his life, but it's not like they hadn't had their rough patches. Harry did almost kill him two years ago, after all. Right before he saved his soul from being eaten by a hundred Dementors.

 _Ugh!_

Raucous laughter in the distance caught Harry's attention. Passing under a streetlamp was Dudley and his gang of brutes and sycophants. They had grown up terrorizing the children of Little Whinging, all the while skirting bobbies and recrimination from parents.

 _If Muggles could be Death Eaters_ , Harry sniped.

Then his swing squeaked, and drew the gazes of the other teens.

 _Well damn._

Immediately, Harry began checking his surroundings for an escape route that would get him back to Number 4 the quickest, and was dismayed when he realized the way was blocked by some of his childhood tormentors.

Harry stood and tried to calm his breathing—it wouldn't do him any good to lose his head before the coming confrontation. That was how he usually made it through such things, after all, keeping himself calm and riling up his enemies—from the various incarnations of Voldemort he'd faced to the school bullies, namely Snape and Malfoy and his cronies.

 _Hopefully the insults won't be too smart for Dudley and his gang to understand._

"Oi, Potter! W-whatchu doin' ova there?" one of them yelled, probably Malcolm, if the slight stutter on the _w_ was anything to go by.

"What else is he gonna do? He doesn't have any friends—he's a freak!"

 _Ah, Dudley_ ; _as eloquent as always_.

"Ha! Yeah, what a loser."

 _Piers_.

"What's up, Pothead? Haven't seen you around." The rat-like Piers had a strange look in his eye that Harry hadn't seen before. And so did the others. It made him worry. "What do you think fellas, he been up to no good?"

 _I solemnly swear_ …

Unfortunately, the other boys caught Harry's smile and leapt at the chance.

Dudley got there first. "You should hear him, moaning in his sleep at night." That statement brought Harry up short.

 _What?_

Like a hound on a hunt, Dudley smelled blood and went for the kill. "'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric! Help me, mum. Help me!'" he taunted pathetically.

Harry was shaking with rage.

 _How_ dare _they?_

But before he could respond…

Dennis let loose a cackle. "Who's Cedric? Your boyfriend? Get tired of fuckin you, did he?" The others found that remark particularly witty, apparently. Not that Harry noticed.

Dudley smirked in triumph as his gang wrecked Harry's heart, but he missed entirely the rage boiling behind his cousin's emerald eyes.

"And wha' was tha' aboud 'is mum?" asked Gordon, hands-down the most brutal of the group. "'e's moanin' after 'is mum? I know she's a whore but—Hell, I guess she's lucky she's dead if that's the kinda freaky son she…." Gordon stopped talking abruptly, his breath caught in his throat from fear.

Standing across from Dudley's gang was a truly enraged Harry Potter. Eldritch fire burned behind his eyes— _his mother's eyes_ —and a faint smell of ozone lingered in the air. He heard his mother's voice calling in the back of his head. Harry's hand shot to his pocket and he withdrew his Holly and Phoenix wand as his mother's voice got louder. He gave no thought to the Statute of Secrecy—only revenge was on his mind.

Revenge for years of brutal torment, and for _daring_ even to speak of his mother and Cedric. Harry was filled with a righteous anger—it was calling for him to dispense justice of the kind which he had long ago stopped hoping for. Harry was happy to give his rage an outlet. And Harry raised his wand to curse the awful boys who were so deserving of their punishment, but stopped abruptly.

His mother's voice? What?

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up as an all-too-familiar shiver went down his spine.

 _Dementors_.

The wind picked up and an unnatural chill blanketed Little Whinging, and darkness blotted out the stars, and all that was left was blackness, illuminated by flickering streetlamps. Not one of the boys was feeling any of the hot tension that thickened the air a minute ago—no, something had changed, but only Harry knew what was happening. What was coming.

Forgetting about cursing Dudley and his gang, Harry began searching for any sign of the Dementors coming for him out of the darkness, but he couldn't see anything.

 _Damn_.

Giving up his brief search as hopeless, Harry did the only thing he could do.

"Dudley! Run!"

Apparently Dudley didn't need to be told twice, nor did the rest of his quivering gang, and all six boys sprinted for shelter.

Jumping over the rusty see-saw, Harry looked to his left and saw three boys split from the main group once they past the short chain-link fence as they headed toward Magnolia Road without looking back. Harry sneered.

 _Some friends_.

Harry, Dudley, and Piers continued running down the street, trying to escape the encroaching cold, and made for the alley that would bring them to Wisteria Walk; it was short-cut to Privet Drive that might save their souls.

Harry tried to ignore the feeling of cold water running all over his body that was steadily weakening his muscles, and his mother's last words screaming in his head as he trudged on—easily the fastest of the three boys—but was brought about when he heard a thud behind him. Sliding against the rough pavement as he came to a sudden stop, Harry turned his body to glance back, and his stomach dropped. Dudley had fallen. Harry looked at Piers who also had stopped, and saw his face, it was milky white, abject fear seemed to have nestled in his wild eyes, and tears streamed down his face; Harry didn't have a good feeling about what was about to happen.

"Piers—"

"Screw you, Potter!" he screamed, and continued running home, leaving Harry and Dudley behind.

Harry knew he was running out of time, but—

"Dudley!" Harry ran over to his convulsing cousin. His face and shirt were covered in sick, and he moaned like an inferius. Harry had never seen anything quite like it. Coming out of his momentary stupor, Harry looked around for a threat; the cold was sharp enough that the Dementors had to be near, almost right on top of them. Harry swiveled his head around, but it was too difficult to make out any definitive shapes in the night, and went to help his cousin— _there!_

Looming in the distance, closing in on them, were four Dementors. The demons glided along the street, taking deep, rattling breaths that grew louder as they approached their prey. Harry was running out of time. He shouted at his cousin, tried to pick up his great bulk—and fell promptly when Dudley tackled him.

Dudley was in a blind panic. "What're you doing, freak?! Stop it! Stop it!" he cried, all the while pummeling Harry's face with his meaty fists.

Harry couldn't do anything with Dudley's massive bulk on top of him, and the Dementors were closing in. He had to act—

" _Stupefy_!" Harry cried, and almost regretted it quite a bit when Dudley fell on top of him, unconscious.

"Argh!" he groaned under the strain as he hefted the waste of space off of him. Harry looked to the Dementors.

"Shit." Harry reared his wand on his cousin for a second time.

" _Mobilicorpus_!" Dudley's body floated next to Harry as he ran for the Alley, hoping desperately that he could get back to Number 4 with his soul still in him.

The alley was teeming with over-full garbage cans, certainly not a good thing to have during a heat-wave, but Harry paid it no mind until the overpowering smell of rotten meats and his own fear-induced nausea became too much for him by the time he was halfway down the alley. He couldn't help it; Harry vomited. Dudley's unconscious body dropped as Harry lost his concentration. Harry's stomach heaved again, and he slipped on sludge that was oozing out of one of the tin cans.

His wand flew from his grip as he landed painfully on his back.

Harry scrambled to his feet, keenly aware of the direness of the situation. He looked down the alley and saw the Dementors closing in. And for the first time in his memory, Harry's fear took over his impulse control momentarily and he turned his back on his enemy—his worst fear—and he made to flee…only to stop dead in his tracks when, to his horror, he saw two more Dementors gliding down from the other end of the alley, cutting off his escape. He was trapped.

But he wasn't Harry Potter for nothing.

Harry dove in the direction he thought his wand had fallen and clawed away at the trash desperately, searching for any hint of a long, skinny piece of Holly wood. His mother Lily's voice still crying, pleading in his mind: " _Not Harry! Not Harry!_ "

"Dammit!" he yelled. " _Lumos_!" Nothing. High-pitched laughter sounded off the inner walls of his skull—Voldemort's.

 _"Stand aside, silly girl."_

The rattling breaths drew closer.

 _"Kill the spare."_

His desperation ratcheted up. Harry would not die listening to that monster's cold laughs. But all his happy thoughts had long-since gone…

He could hear the high rattling breaths of the Dementors—they were just feet away, their hands reaching out to grab him, to Kiss—

" _Lumos_!" And there, just in front of his right knee, lay his wand, shining brightly against the blackness. Harry grabbed it and closed his eyes.

He was ready.

" _Lumos Maxima_!" he yelled as he backed up into high wooden fence, trying to put some distance between him and the Dementors. Trash bins were everywhere, and the exits were blocked, and just to his right lay Dudley, still unconscious and as pale as any Hogwarts ghost. It was just as well—this was a wizard's battle, now.

But it was so cold.

" _Incendio_!" Flame shot forth from Harry's wand and sprayed the four Dementors to his right with scorching fire, making them screech, and serving to keep at bay the biting frost that was attacking his mind relentlessly—trying to drown it.

" _Incendio_!" The two Dementors to his left were doused with Harry's rage. It wasn't enough though—they were still coming at him, and Harry was faltering.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" he intoned, but nothing more than silver wisps left his wand.

 _Where's Prongs?!_

The Dementors moved closer, no longer beset by fire, and Harry's mother's screams got louder as his vision darkened. His mother—who died for him, who loved him so much…

His eyes lit up. " _Expecto Patronum_!"

And then at last came Prongs—brilliant and huge and powerful—and like a ferocious beast he charged down the Dementors as they fled from his magnificence. He was too much for these demons—they stood no chance when confronted with his and Harry's powers. Against his antlers the Dementors balked and shrieked, and were helpless as they were trampled and thrown about like so many raggedy dolls. He reared and sped down the alley toward where the last two were desperately trying to escape—he was not one to avoid a fight—and he charged them down, heedless of their terrified cries. And as Prongs did his work, the night cleared, Harry's mother's voice stopped calling out and begging the Dark Lord to spare her child, the unnatural chill lifted, and Harry fell to his knees, utterly spent.

His job done, Prongs returned to Harry and bent his head in a silent salute before shimmering away as if carried by a wind.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath as he tried to clear his head.

 _Dementors! In Little Whinging!_

He didn't understand what the hell was going on, but he did know he used magic, a lot of magic, and that spelled trouble for him.

"Fuck."

But before Harry could move to get his cousin up from the alley floor, a rattling noise came around the corner of Magnolia Crescent. He spun, wand at the ready, about to summon his Patronus again, only to stash it hurriedly in his pocket when he saw his old sitter—the crazy old cat lady, Mrs. Figg.

"Don't put away your wand, Harry," she pled, "they might come back."


	2. This Grim Old Place

_"Don't put away your wand, Harry," she pled, "they might come back."_

Harry was struck dumb. "Mrs. Figg?!" he question, wincing slightly as his voice cracked.

The crazy old cat lady whose house smelled like cabbage and pee had just revealed that she knew who he was—who he _really_ was—and was acting like he should have known all along.

 _What the hell?_

She pushed her grocery cart into the alley and looked him over. She grimaced, clicking her tongue sharply. "Come on, Harry, we've got to get you home. You'll be safe there."

He could only stare at her. "Wha—"

Mrs. Figg harrumphed. "Well come on then, boy! They told me you were intelligent. You have to get back home; someone will be in contact with you shortly I daresay! Goodness knows what Dementors were doing in Little Whinging. What's next, a dinosaur?!"

Harry held in a chuckle as he took in his surroundings, but couldn't hold a sigh as he spotted Dudley where he had fallen. There definitely was such a thing as _too big_.

He walked over to him and couldn't help but gag as his nose yet again recognized the odor that permeated the alley. Pushing through it, Harry heaved Dudley up by the arm none-too-carefully, and tried to drape him across his back. It worked—sort of. Harry had to be hunched over nearly until his face was level with the ground, but at least he was on the move. Following the noise of Mrs. Figg's cart, Harry trudged his way out of the alley and into fresher air at last. It seemed that the Dementors had indeed given up on their meal.

"Go on, Harry, quickly, I have to alert Dumbledore," she directed, fixing her rain hat to cover more of her head. With one last look around, Mrs. Figg took off muttering to herself, "How he's going to clean up this mess I have no idea though."

 _Well_ , he thought sarcastically, _that was exciting_.

Harry heaved a great sigh that caught half way in his chest because of the strain his current position had on his undersized body.

He forced a cough, tugged down on Dudley's right arm a bit more, and shuffled his way to Privet Drive and "safety". Harry scoffed at the thought.

 _Safety_. _Yeah, 'cause I've never been hurt at Number 4 before._ A sneer caught his upper lip. _Pathetic._

It took far too long to get back to the Dursley residence—no thanks to Dudley, _who had still not woken up_! But that was fine, because as long as he arrived before Dudley, or at the same time, as the case may be, he'd be fine. Curfew was generally when Dudley decided he was good and ready to go back home, and any time after that was apparently way too late.

And suddenly Harry heard his Aunt Petunia's voice in his head, like nails on a chalkboard— _What would the neighbors think_?

On second thought, it wasn't like any of that mattered right now, of course, because currently Harry was shuffling exhaustedly up the walk to Number 4 with his unconscious cousin draped across his back, they were both covered in filth, and the only excuse Harry could come up with was not really an excuse at all—his brain was too tired to come up with a lie—so Harry would have to explain to his oh-so-tolerant aunt and uncle that it was because of _magic_ that all of this happened: That Harry had attacked Dudley to save his life from the soul-sucking monsters that were most definitely sent after _him_ —their freak nephew.

He let out a weak chuckle. _Yeah, 'cause that's gonna end so well_.

Harry pressed on the little red button and waited for the bombs to drop.

Within seconds, the door was opened and Aunt Petunia's horse-like face peered outside. She was wearing a thin floral hostess dress and a white, frilly apron, and her hair was styled impeccably.

Her face twisted as the scent rolled off the two boys and wafted toward her, but almost immediately that was replaced with shock.

"Dudders!" she screeched. "Vernon, come quick! Something's happened to Dudley!" She threw open the screen door and pulled Harry inside with surprising strength.

Harry scurried into the living room and plopped his cousin down on a couch and stretched his back, hearing it crick several times while doing so. He turned toward his aunt, only to be nearly bowled over by his uncle as the obese man waddled his way over to see what had happened. All it took was one look from Dudley to Harry for Vernon to connect the dots. At least, that's what Harry figured by how quickly the man's face turned puce when he looked at him.

"YOU!" Vernon lunged at Harry, who was too exhausted to leap out of the way in time. They landed on the floor and Vernon's meaty, sweaty pink hand latched around Harry's throat as he began screaming and squeezing.

"What have you done, you freak?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SON? You've finally driven him loopy, you have!" Vernon squeezed a little harder, and Harry began to choke. "ANSWER ME!"

And Harry really did try to answer, but he couldn't. He tried disengaging the hand choking him, but he wasn't strong enough, and there wasn't any weapon within his reach. Behind Vernon, he saw Petunia draped across her son, wailing as sobs wracked her body. Black spots clouded Harry's vision, though before he passed out, a tawny owl swooped into the room and dropped a letter on the coffee table, before swooping out again. Harry wasn't sure whether to be scared or relieved.

Vernon seemed torn between squeezing the life out of his nephew and reading the letter. Finally he decided not to asphyxiate Harry—much to the exhausted boy's relief—and twisted his body to face the table, though not without digging a knee into Harry's burning chest.

Vernon opened the letter, and his face shifted from a blotchy, red mess straight to purple, and Harry knew he was in trouble.

"You…" Vernon's voice shook with rage "you used your—your _freakishness_ on our son?!" he roared, his voice becoming higher and higher with every word. "YOU ATTACKED OUR SON! It says so! They've expelled you for it! You son of a bitch! I'LL KILL YOU!" And Vernon slammed a fist into Harry's head before Harry could so much as offer a rebuttal.

And again.

And again.

And again.

All the while, Vernon managed to drive his huge knee deeper into Harry's chest, putting all his weight on it.

After a sharp crack, Harry cried out in agony as his glasses broke and punctured his eye, and blood and goop trickled down the side of his cheek, followed by a crunch and sharp pain that was assuredly his nose breaking. And still his uncle didn't relent. A shocking pain in his mouth forced Harry into a coughing fit as he tried desperately to get out from under Vernon. But Vernon's fists kept pummeling his face worse than ever before. And Harry really thought that, at long last, his uncle was actually going to kill him.

The knee in the middle of his chest was constricting his air supply, and Harry gasped for breath in between hacking coughs. He finally managed to scratch the air desperately enough that he found his uncle's face, and with one more swipe he found the man's ear, pulling on it sharply. Vernon yelped and suddenly stood up—and for a brief, insane second, Harry thought the beating might actually be over—only for the brutish man to start stomping on Harry's chest, causing the teen to go limp at the shocking pain. The assault was unrelenting. Harry felt several ribs break under the force of Vernon's foot, and then even more shooting pain wracked his body when he choked and went into a coughing fit.

It was all too much, and he was overcome. Harry's body was too exhausted from sleepless nights and his ordeal with the Dementors for him to withstand Vernon for any longer. Finally, his vision began to cloud, but just before he passed out, Harry whispered for the one person who'd never let him down. His last bid for survival—

"Dobby."

~Phoenix Fire~

Something was poking Harry in the arm. He was sure of it. And his head. And there was also a distant whisper of…something. He tried to latch onto the whisper, and it seemed to get louder. Harry concentrated more and finally he was brought back to consciousness. As soon as Harry was reconnected with his mind, he became aware of the immense pain that was coursing its way through his entire body—like he was being attacked with the Cruciatus Curse again. He could barely concentrate on the pain itself let alone form abstract thought, his agony was so intense.

Surely he must be dead, and in hell for all of his misdeeds—Merlin knew he was responsible for enough terrible things. Surely no one could be alive and experience such agony. And his aunt and uncle had always said he'd go to hell for being a freak. Perhaps they were right.

To test his theory, Harry opened his good eye, only to shut it closed immediately, as blaring light flooded his vision.

Harry let out a loud sound that was a cross between a moan and a cough, sending a wave of agony across his chest. Then he heard a high-pitched gasp come from his side.

 _Shit my head hurts_!

Weakly, Harry raised his left arm to shield himself from the fluorescent light and squinted. He could barely see anything. Some dark fuzz near his head, some more dark fuzz to his right, and then some lighter fuzz behind there.

 _Where are my glasses?_ Harry let out a painful sigh. _Oh. Yeah_. _Vernon_.

Deciding that there was nothing else he could do, Harry called out to the room. But he was in so much pain. Everything hurt, and all he was doing was breathing and thinking; he was a little afraid of how much it'd hurt to talk.

Still, he had to try.

He opened his mouth and immediately shut it again, such was the pain. It was obvious his jaw was broken. He tried again, only moving his lips, this time. "Hewo?" he whispered.

A soft hoot and a relieved cry answered him back as something latched onto his arm and started leaking. Then his memory started returning to him and the sudden realization of just who had saved him from certain death was none other than his friend, Dobby the House Elf.

"Dobby?" he called weakly.

A sniffle. "Oh Harry Potter sir! What is happening to you?!"

 _An apt question if there ever was one, Dobby._

"Dobby cannot believe those nasty Muggles be hurting the great Harry Potter!" he growled.

Shocked. Harry was shocked. He had not heard anger in Dobby's voice since he attacked Lucius Malfoy. Apparently the Dursleys were awful enough to incite the usually kind little elf to acts of violence. Harry would have laughed if he didn't think it would make him hurt even more.

Through Harry's ruminations, Dobby had kept talking. "But Harry Potter be calling Dobby, sir! And Dobby hurt nasty Muggles, and brought Harry Potter to his room, Dobby did!" he exclaimed.

Harry smiled weakly, trying to imagine what Dobby's face looked like as his emotions played across it. It was a heartwarming image. But there were things to do, and he didn't have a lot of time.

"Dobby, dank you for sabing be again. You're a twoo fwiend, weawy," Harry said sincerely.

And holy shit did Harry sound ridiculous with his nose completely crushed!

"Bud I need you to wisten to me wight now, otay?"

Harry didn't hear a reply, so he assumed that Dobby had nodded.

He smirked. "Good," he garbled, then grimaced. "Fwst, step back a wittle," he tried to say. Harry waited a moment and then gathered all the warm liquid that had leaked into his mouth and, leaning on his side a bit, spit it out. How he hated the taste of blood! And apparently several of his teeth were broken. That explained at least some of the agony and the blood.

Harry let out another groan as he collapsed back in his bed, taking note that Hedwig had perched herself on his shoulder and was still rubbing his head gently with hers. "Otay, heas whad wear gonna do. Fwrst, I need you do durn off da lied."

Harry heard a snap, and then he gingerly opened his eye as much as he could—which wasn't much, admittedly—and realized that with his glasses destroyed there was no use really in bothering to keep his eyes open at all. Not to mention the fact that he was pretty sure there was a chunk of glass embedded in his left eye. That's what it felt like, at least.

Harry sighed as he digested that information from his prone position on the bed.

 _At least I don't have to do this alone._

"Awid, danks Dobby," he continued in a low voice, trying to stop his mouth from moving at all. "Now, I need you do wewease Hedwig—she can find us wader—and pwak my dings in my dwunk, 'cept for my inwisiwiwity cwoak and wawet."

"Right away Master Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby replied.

Drawing a relieved breath, not managing to avoid shuddering in pain, Harry took stock of the situation as he felt Hedwig lift off from his shoulder with a disgruntled hoot, presumably to fly out the window, while Dobby got busy packing his trunk.

Harry was actually surprised that Hedwig listened to him without any argument.

Anyway.

 _My first priority is getting out of Number 4 and somewhere I will_ actually _be safe_. His face twisted into something of a grimace. _But that's easier said than done, in my case._

 _Ugh! Stupid Vernon. He should be glad I used magic, otherwise his precious Dudders would be soulless. Really, they only_ —

 _Shit._ _Fuck._ "I wused magic," he realized. "I wused magic," he said a little louder. "Damn!" Harry shot out of bed to get a look out the window, only to become immediately dizzy, lose his balance, and fall—arms flailing wildly in a futile attempt to stabilize his body.

The resounding _thunk_ that shook his tiny room drew a horrified shriek from Dobby, and the little elf was by Harry's side in a flash. For Harry's part, his head was pounding, his heart was hammering against his chest, his mind was telling him he had to get away as soon as possible, and his body was striving earnestly for rest and recuperation; at least, it was doing that when it wasn't trying to make him insane from all the pain he was suffering.

Not for the first time did Harry dutifully ignore what his body wanted and commanded it to take action. He was on a mission, after all, and he wasn't about to fail.

Ignoring Dobby's wails for the moment, Harry turned over so that he rested on his hands and knees and was able to lay his forehead on the bed and catch his breath. He felt blood dribble out of his mouth and across his face, hearing the droplets splash on the floor. Breathing was much more difficult than normal because his nose was horribly broken and even moving his jaw a little bit was agonizing; he still had no idea how he was even managing to talk. Several seconds passed and the room descended into silence but for Harry's heavy breathing. 

_Come on Potter, UP!_

Using his arms as leverage, Harry boosted himself into a sitting position on his bed. He moaned and grabbed his head.

 _I don't have time for this!_

"Dobby," he whispered, "is eweyding weady to go?"

"Yes Harry Potter, sir," Dobby whispered back.

Harry grinned bloodily. _Such a smart elf_.

Before he could continue, Harry had a coughing fit that shot what must surely have been fire through his chest; his ragged scream certainly would have convinced anyone within hearing range of that much.

Harry felt something warm and wet on his hand and put it to his nose to smell.

 _Like copper_. _Fuck, more blood!_

And it likely wasn't from his broken front teeth. Stunned stupid as that realization hit him, in the back of his mind he thought—rather morbidly—that he had never coughed blood before.

Well, there was hardly any time like the present.

Feeling significantly weaker than he did when he woke up, Harry knew he was running out of time before he passed out again, and that he might not wake up if that were to happen just yet. Suddenly, the pain in his head and chest lessened.

He held a sigh of relief. "Wed's go, Dobby, we godda ge—"

A loud crash downstairs interrupted Harry, and he quickly realized that he was too late—the Ministry was already here! More crashes and curses brought Harry up short.

 _Wait_ , _no way would the Ministry be so careless, unless_ —

Anger coursed through him. " _Death Eaters_!" he hissed in realization, unconsciously finding it much easier to speak. " _Dobby, hurry, people are here to kill me_! _Help me stand up_!" he whispered urgently.

Immediately Dobby's demeanor changed—gone was the kind House Elf who dutifully served the great and noble Harry Potter, and instead there was a ferocious little berserker, intent on protecting his Master at all costs. Of course, Harry didn't see any of his, but his faith in Dobby made him assume that—together—they'd get out of the mess alive.

As he stood up from his bed, Harry heard what sounded like two sets of feet pounding on the stairs, and very quickly his stomach twisted up in knots. He couldn't see! How was he supposed to fight Death Eaters blind?!

 _Shit_.

Harry drew his wand. " _Dobby_ ," he hissed, " _I need you to pop me at the top of the stairs behind whoever is there, okay? Then, if you can, jump on the other person's head and cover their eyes. Can you do that?_ "

Dobby grabbed Harry's hand and spoke quietly. "Dobby be doing that when Harry Potter says so, sir."

Harry heard all of the locks click and the doorknob turn—

" _Now_!"

In what was without a doubt the most peculiar sensation Harry had ever felt in his life, Harry was transported through some infinitesimally narrow tube that squeezed his eyes fit to burst and aggravated his injuries and pain to previously unheard of levels, until he was in place at the top of the stairs behind the Death Eater invaders. He opened his eye as much as he could and saw he had appeared right behind one of the grey blobs he assumed to be Death Eaters, just as he had requested.

Harry and Dobby attacked.

Feeling it'd be best to take a prisoner if he had to fight his way out past more of them, Harry made kicked out the leg from under the Death Eater in front of him, only to hit something quite solid that hurt his foot very much—but he didn't have time to consider what that meant—and jabbed his wand in his fallen enemy's back and wrapped his arm around the man's throat tightly.

Dobby, who went practically unseen by Harry as little more than a grey blur, leapt from the captured Death Eater's head and onto the one who tried attacking them in the room. Dobby had enveloped his enemy's head with his whole body and was trying to hold the man's nostrils shut with one hand and was using his other to block out his eyes.

The sudden attack was certainly not what the two men had anticipated when they walked up the stairs of Number 4 to retrieve Harry Potter and—much to their shock and embarrassment—they were overwhelmed by the fifteen year old and his House Elf in seconds.

Amidst the screams and yells and wild shrieks of the scuffle upstairs, those down in the living room surveying the damage and ensuring that the three Dursleys were indeed alive and were going to make a full recovery had immediately stopped what they were doing and rushed to the base of the staircase.

When they looked up, they were met with a most unusual sight indeed. At the top of the landing on the right hand side was none other than Harry Potter struggling with Mad Eye Moody, whom he held in a chokehold and had jabbed his wand in the old Auror's neck. Just to the left was deranged-looking House Elf seemingly stuck to the top of Kingsley Shacklebolt's head, grabbing at his face and— _biting his ear_!?

Then they heard Harry speak.

"Stob wesisting or ow cud off your fucking head wid now, Deaf Eada scum! Dwop your fucking wand!" he commanded

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Remus Lupin cursed himself for not bringing a camera.

"What do you mean, Death Eater, boy?!" Mad Eye roared. "And what the bloody hell is that thing on Kingsley's head?"

Harry didn't even bother to look, knowing he wasn't able to discern shadows from each other that were further than a foot from his face, so he tightened his hold of the man's neck instead, and dug his wand in deeper for good measure. "I said shud up, you bastad; you're nod taking me awive!"

Hearing muffled noise in front of him, Harry addressed Dobby. "Dobby! Did you ged him?"

More muffled noise. "Dobby did what youse said and got the Death Eater, Master Harry Potter, sir. But hes being feisty, this one is!" _Thunk_. A pause as something slumped against the wall. "Hes not being feisty no more, Harry Potter, sir."

Even blind, Harry could see the vicious smile that crossed Dobby's face as he attended to the other Death Eater. Harry smirked. "Excewent. Wew done, Dobby." He returned his attention to his captive. "Now, asshowe, ansa my qwestion: Who are you, and are dere more of you?"

Harry eased up on his hold slightly so that the man could breathe, and felt a little smug that he heard heavy coughs before the man managed to splutter out a few words.

"Who the hell do you think I am, Potter?!" If Moody hadn't been so embarrassed at having been taken captive by a kid, he would have complimented him on his choker hold and tactical maneuvering. Using a House Elf to launch a surprise assault—genius! Moody would have to be even more vigilant around the creatures, now! "I'm Alastor Moody, and we're here to get you to a safe house while Dumbledore sorts out th—"

That was enough for Harry. "Buwshit you're Awastor Moody. For aw I knowd da owd codga's dead and you're glamad to wook wike him, or he god himsewf captaad again and you're just anoda fucking Deaf Eader Powyjuiced as him to ged ad me!"

Moody growled, and across from him, a subdued and rather dizzy Kingsley Shacklebolt let out a deep chuckle that was muffled by Dobby's arms.

Harry was about to start threatening again when he felt a rather curious warmth in his trouser pocket.

 _The mirror_!

"Awid," he commanded, "dis is whad wear gonna do. Dobby, make sure dis Kingswey fewa doesn'd twy anyding funny, god it?"

"Yes Master Harry Potter, sir," Dobby acknowledged

"And you," he poked his wand in a little more, "you are gonna stay wide dere on your knees and not move untwil I say, ewse I weawy wiw dake your head as a souvenir and stick it on my waw. Now stay stiw."

Slowly, Harry removed his arm from the man's neck and pushed his wand deeper and up into what was probably the lower jaw—where Harry figured was the best place to have it. He reached into his left pocket and withdrew the mirror. He really didn't need this kind of interruption right now.

"Hewo?" Harry called out.

"Harry? Where are you kid, all I'm looking at is the floor." Sirius complained.

He decided to ignore the question. "Siwius I'm a wittle busy wid now. Dere's a bit of a siduation dat I'm handawing," he explained.

"What do you mean 'there's a bit of a situation'? Is everything alright now? And why are you talking like that?" he asked, sounding quite confused and not a little worried.

Harry sighed. He _really_ didn't need this right now. "Wew, id's wike dis. Deaf Eatas bwoke inta my howse and twied to kiw me, bud my House Ewf Dobby and I god da jump on dem." Harry paused. He supposed there was never an easy way to explain this to anyone, let alone one's godfather. "I've twaken hostages Siwius," Harry stated, sounding quite solemn.

Sirius was quite for a quite a long time, and all Harry was aware of was the muttering "Moody" was doing under his breath and Dobby's recriminations of Kingsley. Finally his godfather spoke.

"…what?"

 _How eloquent_.

"It's jusd whad I said Siwius!" Harry yelled. "Dere's some bwoke cwaiming da be Mad Eye Moody, and some other guy cawed Kingswey. Dey twied da get da jump on me! I'm not joking awound here, Padfoot, I'm…"

 _Serious_. _Ugh._

Harry's mirror exploded in howls of laughter and his captive started to struggle, so he was forced to give him a boot into the wall and followed through with jabbing his wand into the man's neck and his knee into his back.

"Shud up, Siwius! Stop waughing, it's nod funny!" Harry was indignant. Death Eaters try to kill him. Death Eaters! And all his godfather can do is laugh?! What the hell?

"H-H-Harry!" Sirius paused for a laughter break. "Harry," he let loose a most unmanly giggle, "I've been trying to get in touch with you for twenty minutes!" More laughter.

 _Really! Enough is enough!_

"We've sent over a team to get you out of that house and back to me."

 _What?_

Sirius took several calming breaths. "You've just captured the real Mad Eye Moody and an Auror named Kingsley Shacklebolt,"

The silence that followed that statement was very heavy.

Finding his voice, Harry addressed his godfather. "Are you…shaw?" he asked, sounding like he hoped to Merlin that Sirius was not certain at all.

Another barking laugh was answer enough for Harry.

 _Well, shit!_

"Um, Siwius, I'm gonna hab ta ged back to you, okay?" Harry said, sounding increasingly embarrassed with each passing word.

Sirius' voice was ecstatic. "Sure thing, Harry. See you soon!" And Sirius was gone.

Harry cleared his throat, but when he tried to speak all he heard was a squeak. He cleared his throat again. "Wew," suddenly Harry became aware of the titters coming from the bottom of the stairs, "uh, I dink dere's been a wather…uh, sewious misundastanding." He paused as laughter trickled up to his ears. "I'm gonna wet you up now, Mr. Moody. And Dobby, pwease wewease Mr. Shackwebowt." He coughed. "Um, he's a fwiend," Harry explained lamely.

Harry quickly removed himself from the old Auror's back and moved along a wall, praying to the gods that he wasn't about to get cursed from the most feared Auror in the Ministry's history.

A light _thump_ near him told Harry that Dobby had let go of his captive as well. There was a pause among the men and elf upstairs as now-raucous laughter rang in their ears.

Harry sensed Moody shift closer to him.

"What happened to your face, Potter?" Someone must have shined a light on his face, because suddenly the noise from downstairs stopped abruptly.

 _Shit_.

Harry stuttered. Really, what could he say? That he fell down the stairs? That might be plausible, if not for the fact that he was pretty sure Dobby had incapacitated his relatives and made a complete mess of the living room.

"Wew, you see, Mr. Moody…."

"Harry?" he heard a familiar voice call from downstairs.

"Hewo?" he called back without looking.

"Harry its Remus, come downstairs please, we really must get moving." A torrent of emotions flooded Harry. _Moony_. _What's he going to think of me when he sees I was beat up by the Dursleys? What's_ Sirius _going to think?_

Harry couldn't help it—he sniffled.

"I cand see ad aw widout my gwasses," he said quietly to Moody.

"They're broke?"

"Yeah."

Moody coughed. "Alright, I'll go down first, and you just grab my shoulder. That way you won't fall down," he offered gruffly.

"Dobby, bwing my stuff downstairs, okay?" he called as he latched his hand to Moody's shoulder.

Harry walked down the stairs with Moody guiding him—his head held low to avoid showcasing the extent of the beating he took—and tried to think of a suitable cover story.

 _Bee Stings? Nut allergy? Fell off my bike?_ He scoffed. _I don't even know how to ride a bike._

Harry's breath hitched.

When Harry reached the bottom landing, he heard people gasp all around him, and it was all he could do right then not to let shameful tears fall.

He cleared his throat as he and Moody made their way away from the stairs. Moody's knarled hand grabbed hold of his and placed it on a chair.

"Here, Potter, have a seat while I take a look at you." Moody leaned over him as Harry sat.

"Harry?" Moony called quietly. "Harry, what happened here?"

Harry heard Moody mutter spells he'd heard Madam Pomfrey use on several occasions.

 _At least he's not another Lockheart_.

"I—"

Harry had another coughing fit. Apparently the last fifteen minutes had been too stressful on his worn and beaten body, and the pain wormed its way back into his mind. His hand was wet again. More gasps.

 _I guess that's not good_.

"Fuck!" Moody exclaimed, as he backed away, likely to face the others. "We have to move Potter now; he needs Poppy's help. And he's in no condition to fly, obviously. Lupin, can you Apparate him back to Headquarters? We're going to have to risk it. We can handle things here. Take Kingsley and Tonks with you."

Harry let out a weak moan as he cradled his chest and his head felt started throbbing again.

The voices were indistinct now.

"Yeah, let's go. Harry, are you…."

Harry vomited and slid from his chair as his world turned black.

~Phoenix Fire~

The next thing Harry knew was that he was…somewhere soft, and that he was nice and warm. There was also a comfortable weight near his feet, and there was a delicious smell teasing his nose. His was surely someplace wonderful.

Harry opened his eyes and saw blur everywhere. Hoping for the best, he stretched his arm out and felt around for his glasses. _Success_! Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he put them on, only to be let down when he realized the left frame was missing. Harry took a look around the room. Above him was an emerald canopy that stretched across the four-poster he was settled in. Turning his head, he noticed the bed was significantly larger than the one he used at school, which was fine by him.

The room itself was as big as the living room at Number 4, which is to say, it was unusually large. Next to the bed was a nightstand supporting a bowl of something, and a large, silver and fogged-glass oil lamp. Near the nightstand was a roll top desk and chair in front of a double-hung window that looked out onto the street; nearby was a door that opened up to an en suite— _very nice_ ; further along the wall was a great wardrobe; and opposite that was a sitting area with a fireplace. All the woodwork that he could see was rich mahogany and crafted in the same antique design; in other words, everything was outrageously expensive. The walls were adorned with silver and green vertical striped wallpaper… And was that a silver snake for a door handle?

 _Where the hell am I?_

Harry groaned as he forced himself to sit up to get a better bearing, only to be knocked backwards as an enormous wave of black fur collided with him and began licking every inch of his face. Instinctively, Harry grappled the hulking mass in a hug.

 _Sirius!_

Said escaped convict immediately jumped off the bed and transformed back into a man, and then collided again with his godson.

And Harry hugged Sirius for all he was worth.

The two stayed like that for some minutes, each drawing comfort from the other. Harry immediately recognized his godfather's cologne, though he was sure he had never smelled it on the man. But it didn't matter. He felt like he was home again after a long journey, and could honestly say that he never wanted to leave again. Harry was with Sirius—Sirius was with _him_ —and he knew that his godfather loved him, and there was really nothing more in the world that Harry wanted than that.

And then suddenly, he remembered. That horrible night in Little Whinging. Dudley's gang. The Dementors. Mrs. Figg. _Vernon_. It all came crashing back down on him again and again like a Tsunami assaulting the shore. Harry was drowning in the memories.

For the first time in a long time, Harry wept.

He clung onto his godfather's outer robe and let his tears fall with reckless abandon, not caring that in his memory he had only really met the man three times, not worrying at all that he might call him weak, or an embarrassment, or _freak_. No, Harry was, despite his desperate sadness and mortification that people now new his most closely guarded secret, completely at ease in his godfather's arms.

Many minutes later, when Harry came to his senses and gave one last shuttering breath into Padfoot's warm chest, he pulled back and looked down at his bed, fully aware of what had just happened, and despite knowing that it was okay, that he hadn't done anything wrong, he started stammering out an apology.

Padfoot sat down next to Harry and put an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close into his side. "Shh. You don't have anything to apologize for, Harry. Never apologize for that," he said softly, his cheek resting on top of Harry's head.

Harry sniffled, not at all knowing what to do. They stayed quiet like that for some time, thinking about everything that had recently transpired. To their humor, they both came to the same conclusion with a whisper.

"Damn."

Harry and Sirius looked at each other and chuckled. Harry was so relieved to hear Sirius laughing that he completely forgot about just how morbid it would appear to be to anyone else. A small smile creased his dry lips.

"I've missed you Padfoot," he said quietly.

Sirius kissed the top of his head. "I've missed you too Harry. More than I can say." He gave a short sigh. "But we're together, now. We can be a family again."

Harry looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes that broke the old dog's heart. He cleared his throat. "I love you Harry, and don't ever forget it," he said thickly.

Harry crashed into him again. After years of being told he wasn't good enough, of being denied basic needs, and feeling total abjection, he was loved. Finally. And suddenly his heart melted and his shoulders lifted. He felt lighter than he ever had. Like he could fly without a broom.

~Phoenix Fire~

"Where are we, Padfoot?" Harry asked.

They were both sitting on the bed and leaning against the wall, and had been quite while Harry ate his chicken soup.

Sirius gave a small smile and withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket. "Memorize this."

Harry grabbed it and saw familiar loopy handwriting:

 _The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London_

And suddenly, he was _aware_.

"Padfoot, wha—"

"There's a Fidelius Charm on the house, so you need to know the secret to know where we are, which is the Black Townhouse, in London." He sighed, waving his hand around lightly. " _This_ is—or was—my brother Regulus' room. Remus and I prepared it for you. It's yours now." His smile got bigger when he noticed the delighted expression on Harry's face. "My room is just across the hall, if you ever need anything."

"And what's The Order of the Phoenix?" He had never heard of that before in all his readings.

Sirius grimaced. "It's a secret resistance organization Dumbledore founded back before the first war to fight Voldemort. It's been started up again, and this is its headquarters—an old, heavily protected Black property; my father was quite a paranoid bastard, so you can be sure that this is damn near impossible to break into it, even without the Fidelius."

Harry sighed deeply. "Is the house safe?" he asked, knowing full well the stories about how dangerous the Black family was.

Sirius chuckled. "Actually, I'm glad you asked, because the answer to that is: Not really."

Harry looked at him quizzically, and Sirius explained. "That's one of the reasons why you…why it took so long to get you here. This place was abandoned for years, and, well, let's just say that all the nasty things my family kept in here had time to…breed, I guess is the word." Sirius looked back at Harry. "We've been cleaning it nonstop. This is one of the few rooms that are completely safe."

Harry looked down at his empty bowl, not sure what to do now. He was glad to be here—really, he was—but he just felt way out of his depth. He wasn't used to comfort, or an adult who genuinely seemed to care for him, to being cared _for_. Harry put the bowl back onto the side table and shifted his position so that he rested against the headboard. All told, he was remarkably more comfortable now that before he had passed out back in Number 4; his left eye was rather itchy and felt sore, and he still felt pretty odd having to keep his left eye closed all the time because that lens was missing, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

There was only one thing he could think of to ask. "So what happens now?"

Sirius looked at him for a full minute before he answered. "Well," he began, "I go tell Madam Pomfrey that you're awake so that she can come and check on you." Sirius grinned when he noticed Harry squirm and looked disgruntled. "She's always been like that. Your father used to call her the Dungeon Mistress." He laughed. "He was convinced she used to make her potions taste badly just to torture her patients."

Harry cracked a grin. He had the same theory, although Hermione assured him that he was just being silly; he didn't think so, and now he had support.

"And then what?"

Sirius lost his good humor. "You've been out for a couple days, Harry. It's August fifth. In two days…" Sirius shifted uncomfortably, "you have a hearing at the Ministry of Magic on the seventh," he said, not looking Harry in the eyes.

Harry immediately became suspicious. Something wasn't right. But before he could continue their conversation, his bedroom door opened and the Dungeon Mistress herself came ambling in.

Harry caught her smiling slightly as she closed the door hurriedly.

"It's good to see you awake again, Mr. Potter. There are quite a lot of people waiting to speak to you, but I'm afraid I must do a quick check up to make sure that everything is coming along alright."

She moved over to Harry as he scooted over to the side of the bed. Sirius stood by the corner post, looking on concernedly.

After a rather exhaustive list of diagnostic spells had been cast on Harry, Madam Pomfrey finally relented and looked at Harry with a frown.

"Well, Mr. Potter, you are recovering nicely, and it shouldn't be much longer until you are just about as healthy as you were when you last left my care." She paused and looked at Sirius with a heavy frown before turning back to Harry. "You'll have plenty of potions to take for the next few weeks, mostly to make up for…and one to encourage your left eye to keep healing, but you'll also have to exercise regularly and keep a proper diet. There's also…."

Sirius and Harry looked at her questioningly when she didn't continue

Harry had never seen the nurse look so flustered before. It was quite unnerving, and he felt that it didn't bode any good news for him.

Pomfrey cleared her throat. "Well, it has come to my attention that unlike other children who have been raised in the Muggle world, Mr. Potter, you did not visit a Healer before coming to Hogwarts for the standard tests and vaccinations, nor have you been to a Healer at all since then."

Sirius looked outraged, but Harry cut him off before he could start yelling. He really didn't need that right now. "Well when can I go to a Healer, then? Can you make me an appointment?"

Harry gave Sirius a pointed look when he made to speak. They would discuss everyone's fuck-ups later. Sirius seemed to understand and gave him a brief nod.

Pomfrey looked mildly ashamed and quite embarrassed when she answered Harry. "I have already taken the liberty of doing just that. You have an appointment with Healer Mary Macdonald in four days."

Sirius perked up at the name, leading Harry to consider that this Mary Macdonald person had probably been one of many notches in the dog's wand holster. Ugh.

"Well, alright then. Thank you, Madame Pomfrey," he said, giving her a small smile.

"Feel better Mr. Potter, and be sure to follow the instructions I send along with your potions," she said sternly.

Giving her a lopsided grin, he asked, "Don't I always?"

She narrowed her eyes at his cheeky tone, and then whipped around at Sirius when he failed to stifle his laugh. Harry honestly thought she was going to stomp her foot in frustration, but she settled for giving them both a withering glare before leaving the room.

Sirius and Harry both let out chuckles when they were alone again, but they quickly died when a knock came at the door.

Harry looked nervously from the door to Sirius, trying to convey that he didn't want any visitors. Sirius nodded understandingly and snuck his head out into the hall. Harry couldn't hear the quiet conversation, but he got the impression that whoever was outside his door was quite disgruntled and stubborn, but fortunately Sirius drove them away. Harry let out a sigh of relief and scooched back further onto the bed as Sirius sat backwards on the desk chair and looked at him sadly.

They were both quiet for a few minutes, each contemplating the other, but mostly worrying over what was going to happen in the next few days, and how stressful they would be. Harry cleared his throat.

"Sirius, do you know where my wand is?" He was getting quite irritated by having only one lens. And now that he was in a wizard's home…

Sirius gave a slight smirk. "Sure, Harry." He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the familiar length of Holly and tossed it over.

Harry caught his wand in his left hand and felt the incredible warm sensation he always felt course through his body whenever he touched his wand. It was like being reunited with a long-lost friend with which he had been through countless trials that tested their worth as beings, and whether they were deserving of life. It was quite a peculiar feeling to get with just a touch, but Harry felt that he and his wand were odd enough that it didn't bare much consideration—it was just a thing.

Harry removed his glasses. For some reason the wire frame felt even thinner than usual, but that wasn't his biggest problem at the moment. " _Reparo_." Nothing. " _Reparo Fortis_. _Occulus Reparo_!" Harry sighed despondently.

"I'm sorry Harry, we tried all those. There was nothing left to salvage from the other lens," Sirius explained with a grimace. "Actually there was," he corrected in a falsely cheery voice, "a piece was lodged in your eye, but that was vanished as soon as Pomfrey got to you. Sorry, kiddo."

Harry gave a pained smile. "Yeah, well, I'd rather lose a lens than lose an eye, ya know? But anyway…let's try this. _Imito_." He duplicated the right lens. " _Adfigio_." And he stuck it on the left frame.

Harry inspected his shoddily repaired glasses and sighed.

 _Just my luck_.

He replaced them on his face and tested their effectiveness.

 _Well, they didn't get any worse, which isn't really saying much_.

"You know Harry, we, uh, we really got to take you shopping. Those clothes of yours—I mean, I'm not sure what the styles are now but, they're in pretty bad shape," Sirius said hesitantly.

Harry looked at his godfather, internally debating what to tell him. He glanced at the wardrobe. There wasn't really any sense in hiding the truth from Sirius—he'd just look like an idiot if he tried. "They're not my clothes Padfoot."

"What?" he asked, nonplussed.

"I said they're not my clothes. They're Dudley's castoffs," he explained in a flat voice. "I don't have clothes of my own."

Sirius just stared at him.

"Are you—are you serious?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Aunt Petunia didn't want to waste the money."

Sirius blew out a long breath and stared at the floor. "I don't even—I just…Ha-Harry I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. For all those years. I would never have guessed that all that would have happened, that I wouldn't be able to take care of you." Sirius gave a light cough and looked back up at Harry, who remained expressionless. "You deserve so much better."

Harry wasn't sure what Sirius meant by that. Did Harry deserve better than the Dursleys? Better than his general lot in life? Or did he deserve a better guardian than Sirius? What—

Another knock at the door. _Damn_.

Sirius let out a low growl as he got up to answer it.

"I already told you, he doesn't wan—"

"Yes, Sirius, I heard, but there are things we must discuss with Harry right now—to help him prepare." Harry recognized that voice.

 _Moony_.

"It's alright, Padfoot," Harry called. "Let him in."

Remus Lupin, looking as shabby as ever, walked into the room, stealing Sirius' seat, and looked Harry over.

He gave Harry a small, sad smile. "Well I'm glad to see you're looking better, Harry. Are you feeling up to talking? There's a lot we need to discuss to prepare you for your trial."

 _That was new!_

"Trial?" he asked stupidly. Then the word registered in his mind. "Not a hearing, but a trial?!"

Moony shot Padfoot a tired look and met a rebellious stare.

Remus cleared his throat and reached behind him toward the desk, picking up the pile of newspapers. "Yes, Harry, your trial. I'm not sure if you've been following the _Prophet_ this summer—"

"I have been," Harry assured him.

"Oh, well, in that case I'm sure you know that you and Dumbledore are quite unpopular at the moment—"

"That's putting it mildly," Sirius grumbled. "More bad press than I have."

"Jealous, Padfoot?" Harry asked smugly.

He barked a laugh. "You wish, twerp. You're just a deranged, violent muggle hater, but I'm a mass-murdering madman!" He cackled insanely.

Harry grinned.

Remus looked between the pair of them and shook his head. Really, what was he expecting from these two miscreants?

"Anyway," he cleared his throat, "back to the matter at hand. The incident in Little Whinging with the Dementors and…has caused a firestorm. The _Prophet_ is calling for your blood. Have a look." He handed Harry a pile of newspapers, causing him to scowl deeply. Big, bold, black letters assaulted his vision, and with each one, Harry's outlook turned even bleaker.

" **POTTER CRACKS, ATTACKS MUGGLE RELATIVES!** "

" **POTTER'S ATTACK WAS VISCIOUS, MINISTRY REPORTS SAY!** "

" **DUMBLEDORE ATTEMPTS COVER-UP OF POTTER'S CRIMES; DISGRACED HOGWARTS HEADMASTER INTERFERES IN MINISTRY INVESTIGATION; ANOTHER SCANDAL!** "

" **MINISTRY ADVISOR MALFOY CALLS FOR INVESTIGATION INTO DEATH OF CEDRIC DIGGORY; DID POTTER MURDER HIM?** "

" **POTTER HAS HISTORY OF VIOLENCE AND INSTABILITY, STUDENTS SAY; CONCERNED PARENTS VOICE THEIR OPINOINS.** "

" **INVESTIGATION INTO DEATH OF DIGGORY ONGOING; EVIDENCE POINTS TOWARDS FOUL PLAY; WHAT THE MINISTRY HAS UNCOVERD SO FAR!** "

" **POTTER'S PERILOUS PAST; FROM DANGEROUS TROUBLEMAKER TO MURDEROUS LUNATIC; HOW BOY-WHO-LIVED WENT DARK!** "

" **HARRY POTTER—NEW DARK LORD? EXPERTS WEIGH IN; MINISTER SPEAKS.** "

" **TRIAL OF THE CENTURY! POTTER TO BE TRIED BEFORE THE WIZENGAMOT; WILL BOY-WHO-LIES GO TO AZKABAN?** "

"Holy fuck." Harry wanted desperately to be sick, but he was too shocked. He couldn't believe it. How had things fallen so far, so fast?

Sirius snorted and Remus nodded tightly, but he couldn't stop his lips from twitching. "Quite. The Ministry has ordered a trial set for eleven in the morning on the seventh." He looked at his watch. "You have less than forty-eight hours to go."

Harry exhaled loudly. This was _not_ what he needed right now. A trial?! How crazy was that? "I don't even know where to begin," he said weakly. "I don't even have a barrister. I mean… Two days?! How are we supposed to do this?" he asked hysterically.

Sirius sat next to him on the bed. "Harry! Calm down. We're going to help you, okay?"

How could Sirius be so calm about this? They were going to tear him apart and then feed the scraps to Dementors! _Dementors_!

"He's right, Harry. We have a plan, and there's a good chance of it working, so just listen to us, alright?"

Harry looked both of them in the eye and saw their honesty. For some reason he didn't understand, it was reassuring. He could either trust them to help him, or not. Really, there was no choice.

"Okay, guys, thanks, really." He heaved a great sigh. "So, what? What's your plan?"

Sirius looked at Remus, who seemed to be the spokesman for the two. Harry idly wondered if that was how it worked after a prank. Remus…always so mild-mannered.

"Well, first, tell us what happened. We have a good idea, but we need to hear you say it."

"Ok, well, I was…"

~Phoenix Fire~

Having dispatched Alastor to assemble a recovery team, Albus stormed out of Headquarters and Apparated immediately to the Ministry. He had to get to the DMLE, and then he had to speak urgently with the Minister, whom he knew was waiting for something to occur that he could use against him and Harry.

…but Dementors?

Albus popped a lemon drop.

There was no way Tom had already made a move for Azkaban—he wasn't yet strong enough—which meant that someone with the necessary ministerial authority had ordered them to attack Harry. That was very bad.

 _Merde_.

Cornelius likely didn't have the stomach for assassination, though the man was becoming more and more unbalanced with each day… Thus, those who were left were few.

DMLE Director Amelia Bones was a possible candidate, but Albus thought her most unlikely to order an assassination, given her record as a stodgy law-and-order type. The Warden of Azkaban was a poor, miserable man who was amenable to bribes, but, again, was an unlikely prospect. Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour was a vaguely prejudiced, image-conscious, and very ambitious man, but he didn't stand to gain much from having Harry assassinated that Albus could tel. Pius Thickneese, Amelia's Deputy, was a traditional pureblood and very much appreciated his own power, but his career showed that he would never be one to risk his position. And, what was more, he didn't have strong Death Eater connections, though he definitely still merited further investigation as a matter of course, to say nothing of the likelihood that Tom would seek to recruit him within the year.

Albus felt a rather unpleasant sensation settle in his stomach as he contemplated Dolores Umbridge, Fudge's Undersecretary, who was a most foul woman with plenty of blood on her hands. She had a fanatical zeal for power in any form, which translated into strident pureblood elitism of the most odious degree and an intolerance of any who threatened her ideal world. She embodied the belief that might equals right, and, all things considered, was most likely to have ordered the hit, in Albus' opinion.

But there were also certain other individuals to take into account that may have been granted the necessary authority, albeit illegally—Albus wouldn't put it past Fudge to give Lucius Malfoy influence over the Dementors, or even Walden Macnair.

Why was it that Albus hadn't put these wretched people out of his misery a long time ago?

Oh, yes, now he remembered: It was because they would have been replaced in a heartbeat, and Albus would much rather deal with known-knowns and known-unknowns, rather than unknown-unknowns.

Now that he thought about it in light of recent events… What an awful way to phrase a political strategy! And was it even much of a strategy anymore, for that matter? Given how poorly things were going for him and his allies…

Oh, Socrates, Nietzsche, and Spinoza, how he hated being pragmatic! Hated it! It was so antithetical to whom he was as a person. Goodness gracious, he was a researcher, a philosopher, a dreamer! Not a politician.

How utterly drab!

Well, that's not to say he wasn't a good politician—he was one of the best—but he would much rather apply his talents to more redeemable fields, like Alchemy, moral philosophy, and the fortification of young minds. To affect a glorious world-wide enlightenment! A sweeping revolution in the hearts and minds of beings everywhere, facilitating an exchange of ideas and culture as never before. Albus shivered in pleasure just thinking about it.

Alas, it was not to be.

 _That ship sailed a long time ago, as the Muggles would say_ , he thought despondently.

Perhaps all this was the price he had to pay for his great and many sins…

The elevator came to a shuddering halt at Level 2, where the Improper Use of Magic Office was kept. Albus rushed out before the golden grille had even halfway opened, his long white beard trailing behind him.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was dark and mostly empty, except for the skeleton crew of Aurors and Enforcers that Amelia kept on hand at night—their numbers didn't allow for much more than that.

Albus turned left and made for the Improper Use of Magic Office—if he could head-off Mafalda…

The light was on, and Albus heard shouts coming from inside.

 _Damn._

He popped a lemon drip and opened the door, taking in the scene.

The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, was stomping around the small office like some deranged ape dressed in dour pinstriped dress robes, shouting about…something. Albus was hard-pressed not to scoff derisively. Dolores Umbridge was standing by a diminished-looking Mafalda Hopkirk, looking extraordinarily smug—Albus had found the culprit, then. Percival Weasley was seemingly trying to hide in a corner. _Perhaps the boy has finally seen sense_? Lucius Malfoy was watching Fudge as though he was a particularly interesting insect. And Auror John Dawlish stood stoically near the door, likely waiting for Fudge's order to act.

Albus was too late, then.

"Cornelius," Albus spoke.

Immediately the ruckus stopped and everyone turned their attention on him.

"Dumbledore!" Fudge crowed with insane glee. "I knew you'd come here! Knew it! Well, you're too late. The Potter brat attacked his Muggle relatives, broke the Statue of Secrecy in so many ways I can't even count them all, and I've just expelled him from Hogwarts. You're finished! You both are! And he's going to be rotting in Azkaban where he belongs for the rest of his life, all before the night is out! Ha!"

 _The cochon!_

Albus wasn't sure which was dominant—his rage at Cornelius and his cronies, or his dread at having to fight such a battle now when he was at his political nadir. His rage won out, but so did his cool head. Mostly.

Okay, so he didn't blast the fool into the wall.

How should he handle this? It had been too long since he last gave an opponent an old-fashion rhetorical beat-down. Could he rise to the occasion?

 _Olé_!

"Cornelius," he said sternly, "you do not have the authority to expel students from Hogwarts, you do not have the authority to order the capture and summary imprisonment of suspected criminals"—his stomach twisted at even _associating_ that word with Harry—"nor do you have the authority to pass judgement over a person if they have not first been granted a fair trial for which there was a clear verdict and you were the presiding judge." He paused.

Rationality had never really worked with the man before, but Albus had to try something. A threat? It would make him feel better, certainly, and the situation was getting increasingly desperate.

"And if you continue on your current course, I will see to it that you yourself are brought up on charges for violating the rights of a minor citizen, abusing the authority of the Office of the Minister, and conspiracy to violate the Ancestry and Heritage Act of 1749, which granted the Potter family, the Malfoy family"—he inclined his head slightly toward Malfoy. Oh, he felt so dirty. Albus hadn't wished for a scalding hot shower so much since Igor Karkaroff hugged him last October—"and many, many others the right to a fair trial by the entire Wizengamot if they so wish it." He paused for a breath. "And I assure you, Cornelius, Harry Potter does indeed wish for such a trial."

Fudge looked ready to explode as his plans came crashing down around him. The stupid little _âne_ was impotent in his rage.

But Albus wasn't done yet. He had a lot of pent-up frustration to let out, and if he couldn't find Tom and duel him, then…

He looked down on Cornelius. "And then, once you are on trial and your entire administrative team is flopping about like particularly guileless goldfish caught out of water, I shall organize some old ICW friends of mine who are on the Finance and Commerce Oversight Committees. I will see to it that they then commence an investigation into the entire British Ministry of Magic, where they will focus especially on rather outmoded and long-buried laws that have yet to be repealed, which subtly favor certain British businesses in key sectors of the market to the ongoing disadvantage of their foreign competition.

"In which case—and please correct me if I am mistaken—there would be grounds for the fourteen other governments that signed the 1969 European Free-Trade Act to enact an injunction on British goods. And who knows how many other violations there are with the treaties we have with our European allies, such as the 1893 Concordat of Brittany and the 1751 Arhus Accords. One can only hope that they find amiss."

Oh, how Albus reveled in Cornelius' look of dread! It was glorious and immensely satisfying. Should he start calling himself a Dread Lord, perhaps? The Dread Lord Dumbledore. Hmm. It was something to consider, definitely.

"And then, Cornelius, I will call to the attention of the General Assembly what I know of our pitiful government's iniquitous operations and its dubious and longstanding unofficial policy of selective non-enforcement of certain ICW statutes and regulations, including—but certainly not limited to—the Equal Opportunity Employment Act of 1947 and the Creatures and Beings Rights Act of 1963."

He smiled viciously at Cornelius.

"But I don't think I'd be satisfied with just some paltry sanctions." Albus pretended to think about it. He shook his head decisively. "No, definitely not. Your recent insults demand more exacting retribution, don't you think? Now, I happen to be aware of certain other governments much more respected by the international community than yours is that would take great pleasure in working to dissolve Britain's position in the ICW and to have Britain's allies abandon it in light of your government's gross corruption and duplicity.

"Of course, there is very little hope for Britain to recover from such a concerted effort at destroying its economy and political relationships. It really is a shame how weak a government can be if it is staffed mostly by sycophants and incompetents, isn't it?" Albus gave a false laugh, like he was sharing an inside joke.

"One wonders how such a government has managed to function at all, because surely a state as corrupt as that would have collapsed long ago. Unless, of course," Albus hedged, "some elder statesman was skilled enough and popular enough to have held everything together for many decades, in spite of a distinct lack of international good-will and cooperation at home." Fudge looked like he was about to be sick, but Albus hardly took notice, momentum being what it is.

"And then," Albus moved on, "if I am not satisfied by that point, I can guarantee that the other member nations will see to it that Britain is placed under the full legal jurisdiction of the ICW for violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in some way or another that I shall, of course, determine at a later date, until such a time as when the political and quite possibly the financial landscape of Britain bears absolutely no resemblance to what it is currently. And all of the things you fear, Cornelius—Muggleborn rights, Creature rights, fair tax and legal codes, no more free-lunches or vast expense accounts provided by wealthy patrons—would have come to pass.

"And while all of this is happening, Harry Potter will be happily living his life as he deserves, playing Quidditch and practicing his most excellent Patronus Charm as he is wont to do."

Albus glared at Cornelius and let some of his roiling emotions slip; not enough to precipitate an episode of accidental magic, but enough to upset the sad excuse for a Slytherin just a little more. It worked, of course.

"I think it goes without saying that you yourself would most likely end up thoroughly disgraced and living in Azkaban, serving a well-deserved life sentence that would quickly impress upon you what a truly miserable person you are, as you fester in your cell like a diseased and suppurating wound would fester in the hot sun. And I will personally ensure that you will share in this horrific fate with all of your closest friends, I might add, if for no other reason than the fact that you are responsible for the current state of affairs and have insulted myself and Harry Potter so gravely."

A heavy silence descended upon the room.

 _Oh_ _bravo_! _Magnifique_!

He certainly did rise to the occasion, if Albus might say so himself.

Perhaps he could buy a new hat to celebrate? Something different, like a purple fez with a yellow tassel? Yes, most definitely. Fezzes were rather 'cool', if his understanding of current fashion trends was anything to go by. And he thought he'd certainly look rather snappy wearing one with that new maroon robe with the little gold stars…

 _Excellent!_

But back to the party.

Fudge was quaking; Malfoy looked almost impressed; Mafalda was about to cry; Umbridge was trying to kill him with her beady little black eyes; Percival was apparently trying to disappear _through_ the wall like some sort of phantasm; and Dawlish looked…lost. Yes, that was it.

 _The poor man_.

Anyway, Albus was banking on Fudge's stupidity for his threat to work. No one in their right mind would ever call upon the ICW to launch such an investigation—there would be a world war the likes of which had never been seen! The only time the ICW had taken such an action was after he had defeated Gellert, and no one had wanted to give the industrious and resourceful Germans autonomy right after a war had just been waged against them across all of Europe.

(It also wasn't like all the other member nations didn't frequently violate treaties, too; the cases he had mentioned in his threat were simply so glaringly obvious that even Fudge would understand the implications if official word got out.)

And that's to say nothing of the level of devastation such an action would cause Britain, Lord Voldemort be damned.

Oh, it looked like Fudge was trying to say something.

"What's that Cornelius? I didn't quite hear you." And if Albus sounded condescending, it wasn't like he could really help it. He was simply following his heart.

The Minister kept stuttering.

But before Albus could speak—

A shrill shriek sounded to his left. "Are you threatening the Minister?!"

Albus fought a wince as he turned to face Fudge's Undersecretary.

 _How revolting_.

"I'm sorry Madam, did you say something?" he asked, sounding clueless.

Do not let it be said that Albus Dumbledore could not be vindictive.

Umbridge, apparently— _blessedly_ —was unable to field his question.

Alas.

It was as if…as if she was overwhelmed with umbrage at Albus' audacity.

 _Oh ho! That's a good one. I should share that with Minerva. I wonder_ —

"I asked if you were threatening the Minister!" she finally had the decency to yell back.

He gave the rude woman his fakest smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, my dear, it's just that, at my age, hearing certain extreme pitches of noise is quite difficult. I'm sure you understand." He smiled brightly to everyone in the room.

Perhaps he enjoyed toying with his prey too much?

Hmm.

"Now, as to your question…" he offered magnanimously, "Of course I was not threatening the Minister"—he looked Cornelius dead in the eye to convey to the man that, yes, he actually was indeed threatening him—"I was merely conveying my belief of the likely outcome of the current course of events.

"I have a rather keen mind, if I do say so myself, and, what with my almost unequaled knowledge, my many, many decades of dutiful public service, not to mention all of my important contacts worldwide with powerful and influential politicians, businessmen, and philanthropists, I felt it prudent to share my well-founded opinion with all of you fine people."

Fudge looked like he had swallowed something especially nasty. Albus was glad he had gotten through to the otherwise impenetrably-dense and obstinate politician.

 _An obstetrician! No, wait_ —

"As I was saying," Albus continued, "Harry Potter will have a public trial in front of the entire Wizengamot—and it will be a fair trial," he said most sternly, glaring at Cornelius. He didn't need Legilimency to know that the Minister had no intention of even letting Harry speak in his own defense.

Perhaps he could blast the man into the wall just a little bit?

"Now, Cornelius, what is your decision?"

~Phoenix Fire~

The meeting with the Minister had gone just about as well as Albus had hoped. He got everything he wanted out of it and more—Harry would get a trial, Fudge had been cowed, he discovered who sent the Dementors, and he even managed to relieve a little stress in the process of threatening to topple the government and re-make society to his liking.

And then it all went to Hell.

Fudge had already sent a team to arrest Harry before Albus even got to the Ministry, and, although thankfully Harry had been evacuated from the area minutes before they arrived, the Aurors still came upon Order members cleaning up the mess.

And what a mess it was.

Albus arrived at Privet Drive in a flash, and hot on his heels were the Minister, his Undersecretary, Percival Weasley, Auror John Dawlish, and, surprisingly, Lucius Malfoy. (The very fact that the corrupt man was able to think about the location at all told Albus that the Blood Wards were forever gone).

The Order was refusing entry to the investigating Aurors, arguments were breaking-out all over the front lawn—thankfully no wands had been drawn yet—and, above the din, Vernon Dursley's raging was sounding especially potent.

 _What an awful man_.

Albus strolled up the path to the front door, his mere presence having a strong calming effect on the twenty or so witches and wizards in the area even though he was struggling mightily to control himself. He stepped over the threshold of Number 4 Privet Drive and unknowingly entered a whirlwind of long-hidden of nightmares that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

Albus peeked inside the living room, only to find Vernon Dursley trying and failing to bulrush Alastor Moody, Petunia Dursley was standing on the other side of the room looking quite distraught, and behind her…Dudley Dursley was obviously still suffering from the effects of Dementor exposure.

The Minister and his entourage brushed past Albus and walked into the Dursley's living room.

 _This has the potential to go rather poorly_.

"Excuse me!" Cornelius yelled, as if he was speaking to a particularly dimwitted and hard-of-hearing person.

 _Oh Hell._

"I say, what is going on here, man?" he asked Vernon.

The obese Muggle looked at the new arrivals as if he had no idea what to make of them. Upon consideration, Albus himself likely would have had similar trouble if he were in Vernon's place.

The man turned a rather garish shade of sweaty-purple. "What—who are you?! Why are you all in my house?!"

"I am the Minister of Magic," Cornelius continued in the same speech pattern, "and I am here to—"

"Minister?! You mean they actually have you people in government?" Vernon turned to look at his wife. "I told you they were all crackpots, the lot of them! All freaks!"

Petunia nodded in decisive affirmation.

"Excuse me?!" Cornelius asked, obviously too self-important to conceal his shock at being addressed in such a way.

"I said you're a freak! A freaky _freak_! Just like that fucking Potter brat! If I ever get my hands on him again I swear I'll tear him apart!" Vernon roared.

" _Stupefy_."

Vernon was engulfed in red light and fell to the ground like a ton of bricks.

Albus looked at Alastor in surprise.

"What?" he grunted, "Don't tell me you weren't about to do it."

Albus studiously ignored the question.

Petunia shrieked in outrage as she rather unsuccessfully tried to shield her son's body with her own. "Vernon! What did you do?! What did you do to my husband?!"

"Shut up!" Alastor yelled back, "he's just unconscious. He was giving me a headache."

Petunia made to speak, but—

"What did the Potter brat do to you?" Umbridge simpered, looking thoroughly disgusted at having to talk to Muggles.

"He attacked my Dudders! He used his freakishness on him!" Petunia yelled.

Umbridge looked at her uncomprehendingly. "What is a 'Dudders'? Some sort of pet?"

"My son, Dudley, you idiotic woman!" Petunia shouted back.

Before Umbridge could issue a rejoinder, several Aurors came stampeding into the house, one of whom came to a stop in front of the Minister, thankfully interrupting what would most assuredly have been a ridiculous argument between Dolores Umbridge and Petunia Dursley.

"Minister, sir, I have interviewed the neighbors and have a report on the Potter kid ready for you, if you'd like."

Fudge didn't seem to know whether to be excited or bewildered. He was likely experiencing too many thoughts to process them all.

 _What a boob_.

"What do you have to report, Auror?" came Lucius Malfoy's silky voice.

If the obsequious way the Auror regarded Malfoy was any indication, the young man would have to be watched. Closely.

"They all say he's no good, Mr. Malfoy, sir. A rotten criminal, they called him. Destroying property, terrorizing people, bullying kids, it's all there. He's never had any friends; kids are scared of him, apparently. They're convinced there's something abnormal about him, and that he causes all sorts of strange things to happen."

The young man took a deep breath and continued, visibly overcome with nervous excitement, which explained why he failed to hear Alastor's disparaging remarks on his intelligence and parentage.

"I think it's a clear-cut case that the kid's been using Dark Magic to hurt the Muggles and cover up his crimes for years. They all think he goes to some school called St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, whatever that means. I'll have a more detailed report written up in a few hours, sir."

Fudge, Umbridge, and Malfoy looked like Christmas had come early. Albus just wanted to be sick.

"Minister!" a voice called from the hallway.

The bumbling moron and friends hurried into the hallway, and Albus followed, too shocked and angry to think of what more he was about to see.

"I remember from a few years ago, sir, my brothers were talking about a cupboard," Percival Weasley explained. "They said there was a bed in it, and a bunch of locks," he continued, pointing at a cupboard door.

Albus knew.

 _The Cupboard under the Stairs_.

It looked terribly cramped and oppressive from the outside, and Albus couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like to have been locked away in there as Harry was.

Lucius Malfoy was the first to the cupboard and he dipped his head inside, but he quickly straightened himself, and gave Albus a sickeningly delighted look.

"There's a bed."

"I—" Albus tried.

"Minister!" another voice yelled, this time from upstairs. "You better come up here, sir!"

And then Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic of Great Britain, squealed like some demented child and rushed up the stairs. Albus was forced to follow right behind him, so full of dread that he didn't even notice as all his lemon drops spilled from their bag and scattered on the floor.

 _Locked away…_

 _To save his soul…_

 _For his own good…_

 _And so others couldn't get to him…_

Suddenly, Albus was having trouble breathing.

The upstairs landing was chocked with hulking Aurors trying to get a good look at what had attracted so much attention, hardly paying any heed to the portly Minister. Given Albus' great height, he was able to catch a quick glimpse. A bedroom door riddled with a ludicrous number of locks, and a cat flap.

 _No no no no no_!

Albus pushed the Aurors aside roughly. He had to get into that room. He had to see…

The Minister actually tripped over his own feet in his haste to get inside Harry's room. Albus stepped over his fallen form, not even bothering to conceal his sneer as he discreetly cast a wandless Bowel-Loosening Hex at the disgusting man.

Harry's room was…well, he wouldn't really qualify it as a room. It was more of a large closet, the likely original purpose of which had been as an office or perhaps where a housewife might keep a sewing machine. As it was, the furniture was in ruins, there were piles of broken toys taking up considerable floor space, the bed was lopsided and small, and permeating the musky summer air was an eye-watering smell of stale sweat and…blood.

Albus was horrified.

 _What have I done?_

 _What have I done?!_


End file.
